


Snow

by Dasha (Dasha_mte)



Category: Highlander (Movies), Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-23
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-02 01:32:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 61,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10934214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dasha_mte/pseuds/Dasha
Summary: After Jacob Kell--everything changes.





	1. Snow: Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> First off--not mine, all characters and situations belong to the originators and copyright holders. I make no profit.  
> Second, I think I got into this fandom through listen_r and Mackiedockie. They were really good, but then I had to watch the series. Fortunately, this was a few years after the series ended, so everything was on DVD....  
> Anyway, once I started watching the obvious question was not "Methos or Joe?" but "how in the world did he handle both Methos *and* Joe?" Dang!  
> Eventually 3 plausible ways for it to all play out emerged. *Snow* is probably the best of them.

The quickening was horrible.

Wave after wave of pain crashed into him, saturated with ugliness and hatred, bitterness and anger. And even so, as bad as it was, the pain could not wash away the terrible emptiness, the great grief. 

When it finally ended, every light was out as far as MacLeod could see, and the tortured atmosphere began to leak a sour-tasting drizzle. From midtown he could hear the angry honking of drivers who had ground to a halt in the face of darkened street lights. Slowly, stumbling a little, he turned his back on Kell's body. Let it rot there, or let the Watchers have it. 

The lights came back up before he had gone half a block. Half a block more and a sedan pulled up beside him. Against the deafening roar of Kell's quickening, which still burned against the inside of his skin, Methos' familiar resonance was barely a whisper. The passenger side door opened. "Get in," Methos said. 

The hesitation wasn't indecision, it was only trying to remember why it would or wouldn't be a good idea and if there was some reason why the answer might be important. In the end, he realized that probably it didn't matter, and got in. 

The traffic snarled by the power failure was still sorting itself out, and they moved very slowly. Duncan looked out the windows, remembering when New York had had cobbled streets and carriages and five stories had been considered a tall building. The first time he'd come here he'd been with Connor--

Stopped at a corner, Methos handed him a wad of tissues. "Clean your sword, Duncan." 

Neither of them said anything else until MacLeod looked out and saw that they were crossing one of the bridges. "Where are we going?"

"Brooklyn. I have a house." 

For a moment MacLeod was awash in disorientation, trying to picture their route, but he quickly gave it up. It didn't really matter where he was going, after all.

Methos stopped the car on a narrow, dim street and pointed through MacLeod's window. "There. Let yourself in. I'll go park." Methos dropped a key into his hand, then leaned past him to open the car door. "If there's someone there, it's probably Amanda and her puppy. She should be in by now."

MacLeod roused himself. "You called Amanda?"

"I didn't." Methos didn't elaborate and MacLeod got out. 

MacLeod climbed the steeps of a brownstone that seemed, in the relief cast by the streetlights, to be just like the thousands that surrounded it. There was no buzz from another immortal as he keyed the lock, and the lights were off inside. By touch, he found a light switch. An entryway with stairs and an opening to the left. He found a second light, peered in. The room was narrow and small, but nicely furnished and warm. Warm--for the first time, MacLeod realized how cold he was. He shut the door and went to sit down on the couch. 

*** 

When he woke the room was more dimly lit, and Methos was asleep in a chair, a book open in his lap. There was no shock of memory upon wakening. Even asleep, Duncan had known where he was. And why. But while his memory wasn't a surprise, the pain still rose up in a fresh wave. 

He closed his eyes. So many times over the last ten years he'd wished he'd just known what had happened to Connor. So many times he'd thought that even knowing the worst had happened would be better than fearing it and wondering.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Distantly, he heard a patient knock. Distantly, he heard Methos rise and hurry to the door. He didn't feel another immortal, though. This wasn't Amanda. He wouldn't have to face her yet. 

"You're late." A wave of cold came in on the heel of the whisper.

"Not yet, but soon, yeah, probably. You gonna let me in?" Dawson, MacLeod realized with a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. Damn, damn. He'd wanted more time before he'd had to have that conversation. Now, when everything was lost, when he couldn't pretend anymore...he would have to ask. And face the answers. And make some decision, take some action. 

"You look like hell." The door shut, closing the winter wind out. The sound of footsteps in the hall.

"Thanks. Tell me you've still got him."

"And behold, there he sleeps." 

A sigh. "Good. Thank you." Joe was whispering, now, too.

"Joe, it's after three in the morning. Where the hell have you been?"

"Getting screwed, buddy, getting screwed. You're looking at the new Interim Director of New World Operations."

"Crap."

"No kidding. Look. There's a problem, actually."

"What, you mean besides the thankless desk job? Come into the kitchen and sit down. We'll talk about--"

"No, I--Adam, look. You may not want me staying here. My first order of business is cleaning out Kirk's people. It'll take us several days to find them all...and they'll probably try to kill me before I get the chance. I wasn't followed, but I shouldn't stay here--"

"You won't go anywhere else."

"Adam, they may find me--"

"And you won't argue with me. You'll wake MacLeod." 

They moved on past the door, still whispering together. Duncan kept his eyes shut. When he woke again, it was to the sound of the phone. Although the noise was startling, it was also a relief. He'd been dreaming of fire. There was terror and loss and horrible guilt. One of Connor's dreams....

He was sitting up, running his hands through his hair and trying to shake himself free from the claws of sleep when Methos hung up the phone. "That was Amanda," he said. "They're snowbound in Chicago. The earliest they can get here is tonight." 

MacLeod nodded. Amanda had brought her new partner to meet him once. He was glad enough not to have to face them right away.

Sighing, Methos came to the couch and sat down next to him. "Is there anything I can do?" He asked softly. 

MacLeod flinched. Methos was worse than Amanda. Oh, so much worse. But he couldn't put off the question. "Aye," he said heavily, "You can tell me you didn't know. You can tell me you didn't send my grieving kinsman to the hell that destroyed him." 

Methos nodded slowly. "I see." 

"Do you? Whatever state he was in when he went into that place--"

"MacLeod, you have no idea what state he was in."

"You're not saying it, Methos. Don't put me in this position. Don't make me avenge him on you, too!" He stumbled to his feet and began to pace. He had the presence of mind to walk away from his sword; his rage hadn't burnt itself out on Kell, and despite his fury, he didn't want to fight Methos. "Why did he go to you! Why did he trust you--"

"For a start, because he didn't know me very well. We met during...some war or other. It doesn't matter. He was a hero, and I was a doctor. He knew I was old. He thought I was kind and wise. A pacifist." 

"Did he know? Who you were?"

"No. Nothing, really. But we met again, in eighty-nine, in New York. A history conference at Columbia. His wife was presenting....I can't tell you how frightened I was when I felt him. The Asian history department at Columbia was cheek to jowl with Watchers in those days. But of course he didn't do anything anyone would notice. We barely spoke. I didn’t see him again until ninety-three."

"Ninety-two," Duncan corrected. "Rachel died in December of ninety-two." 

"June of Ninety-three. He'd been running, hiding from his life."

Oh, Connor! "Why didn't you come to me?"

"I didn't know you then," Methos answered reasonably. 

"Ah. Well. You've known me for seven years since! You knew I was worried. You knew how I missed him!" 

"Yes." 

"You knew, and Dawson knew--"

"To be fair, he didn't."

"What?"

"Joe. He didn't know about Connor," Methos articulated very slowly, "When he was interim supervisor for the Northwest he had the clearance to find out who was in Sanctuary, but he was...busy at the time. Perhaps you remember? He found out about Connor the same day you did." 

He shut his eyes. It was a relief Dawson hadn't known. As much as he owed Joe, he could not have allowed himself to forgive that betrayal. It would have been the end of them....

The relief was short-lived. So much else was so wrong. There was going to be no easy way to forgive Methos. There was no way to get rid of the terrible anguish he was carrying, his own and Connor's. MacLeod sat down in the chair Methos had slept in. "Ten years in that nightmare. Ten years...is it any wonder?" Oh, Connor. Locked into that--iron thing, motionless and blind, drugged-- "And it was you who sent him to that. He came to you for help. He trusted you."

"Yes, he did. His wife had died not long after I encountered them. His daughter had just been brutally murdered. He was afraid you were next."

"And he went to you for help. Because you were so wise and good. To you and not to me." MacLeod did not care how bitter he sounded.

"That's right. He came to me for help and asked me to take his head. Because he did not want to ask so much of you."

MacLeod swayed. "No," he said. "Not Connor." 

"Yes, Connor! Damn it, MacLeod have you not been paying attention at all--"

"You could have sent him to Sean--"

"He didn’t want to get psychological help. He wanted to die." 

"So you sent him to hell." 

"It was all I could think of....I didn’t want to kill him." 

"And all those years--all those years you left him in that hell--"

"It would not have done any good to tell you. Kell murdered a dozen people to breach Sanctuary. It took a small army. And even if you could have fetched him back out, he was still suicidal." Methos' eyes were hard, unrelenting. "In any case, I could not tell you." 

"Why not?"

"Follow the logic. Adam Pierson did not have the clearance to access the Sanctuary files. You knew only one person who had ever had access to that information."

"Dawson--"

"If you had freed Connor, his superiors would have assumed he'd betrayed them. Especially considering that it was already obvious that he would do anything you asked. For compromising Sanctuary they wouldn't even have bothered with a Tribunal. They would have just sent a sniper to finish things from a distance." 

"Aw, god...."

"There is my guilt, Duncan. I chose Joe over your suicidal kinsman. How will you judge me? And perhaps.... perhaps I should have done more than I did. I pitied him, but not enough. I did not know about Kell, or at least...I did not know that he'd been stalking Connor on and off for four hundred and fifty years. All I saw was a man who'd been very unlucky, who didn't have the courage to face his immortality. I pitied him a little, but-- I did not want his head." 

"So you just sent him off to hide, to rot in that nightmare--"

"I let you run off to hide. For pretty much the same reasons, as far as I can tell."

And that, finally, brought Duncan up cold. "It wasn't the same," he said.

"Yes. You were conscious and meditating. And you let Joe and me visit on birthdays. Thank you. So much, by the way." 

"Methos--"

"I missed you! I missed you, damn it."

MacLeod buried his face in his hands. Surely they did not have to go through this yet again. "We almost lost Joe and Amanda. O'Rourke would have killed them to reach me. Out of the Game, I'm not a threat to anyone."

"And it's much easier, much safer, isn't it, to walk away from them than to love them. To tell us you care for us and then leave us to our fates."

"That's not fair."

"No. It wasn't. Not to any of us. I think you must have been related to Connor, somehow. You have the same selfish streak." 

"He wasn't--"

"No?"

"He was...he was broken. He was..." the unbearable pain that had haunted him all the long day since Connor's quickening rose up again. The hurt of it. "If you had needed me I would have come! Always--"

"Where were you, when Amanda had to kill her pre-immortal student to save him? And the year she spent trying to find him because the angry, ignorant child ran away to sulk? Where were you when Michelle Webster took her first head? She could have used your advice then, your good example. Where were you in September when Joe took a bad fall and spend three days in hospital with a concussion? While you were on Holy Ground giving up violence and protecting us from your presence, we needed you." 

"Methos."

"As much as you needed him, we needed you." Methos came and squatted before him, taking MacLeod's face in both hands. "I let Connor have his oblivion. I sent him to Sanctuary. I shouldn't have. I will not let you go. I will not relent, if I have to chase you to the ends of the earth."

MacLeod felt his eyes burn and fill. The weeping would hurt, all the weeping so far had hurt. He tried to pull away. "My teacher--"

"Died. Because it was the only way he could think of to save you. Because he knew you were next, and he could not bear to lose you. You were the only joy he had left in all the world. Will you waste it?" 

"Leave him alone. He's suffered enough."

Methos jumped at the unexpected voice, then glared upwards, past MacLeod's head, scowling. "Joe, we agreed that I would handle this," he said warningly.

"He's hurt enough. He's lost more than I can even imagine having. If he needs to rest...let him go. Don't put him through this." 

"He's not safe as he is. And don't think he'll hurt any less if I leave him alone." 

"This isn't helping."

Slowly, Methos stood up and went around to Joe. "You agreed to let me handle this. I need you to trust me. Please. Please, Joe?"

"Aw, hell."

"Why don't you go upstairs and take a shower. Hmm? Trust me." 

There was a long pause during which MacLeod could not force himself to look up and face either of them. 

"Fine." 

"It will be all right. Trust me." He whispered something else, and then Joe turned and left them alone again. 

MacLeod steeled himself for another round of Methos' brutal judgment, but he only went and sat on the couch, not looking at MacLeod. MacLeod had a sudden vision of him, covered in a bloody smock and crying, shouting in some strange Germanic language. It was a memory laced with the kind of respect and affection MacLeod himself usually held for Grace or Darius. This was a vision of the paragon Connor had sought out to take his quickening. 

Abruptly, Methos stood up and picked up a tee-shirt that had been sitting on an end table. "Come on. Put this on, and let's go find something to eat. There isn't much. I haven't had time for shopping."

After a long, uncertain moment, MacLeod changed out of the torn and bloody shirt and followed Methos out into the short, narrow hall. Besides the stairs, there was a closet and a half-bath and a tiny den that barely held a computer desk and a couch. The kitchen, because it was also the dining room, was large enough to move around in. There was a window over the sink that gave a cozy view of a tiny courtyard filling up with snow. "I see we're getting the other end of Amanda's snow storm," Methos said. "Do you like maize porridge?"

"Grits or polenta?" he asked, rousing himself.

"For breakfast, corn meal mush." 

There were eggs and left-over steak and cheese (Methos always had cheese) and mangos. Duncan sat at the table, half-watching while Methos bustled around the kitchen, preparing some meal that might be breakfast. It was domestic, but far from comfortable. Methos was still angry. MacLeod was so heartbroken that he hardly cared. 

"I'll have to go shopping. Nick eats like a horse. Maybe a roast. Pork? Or beef?"

He seemed to want a response. "Whatever," MacLeod sighed. 

"Will you stir this? So it doesn't burn?"

"Uh?" MacLeod asked.

"The shower's been off for about five minutes now. I need to go check on Joe. Will. You. Stir. The. Porridge?"

Without bothering to answer, he rose and accepted the wooden spoon. Methos gave him a dark look before leaving him. As difficult as being with the old man had been, being alone turned out to be worse. Too empty, too quiet. 

*God. Connor. Why didn't you come to me?* But he hadn't known about Kell, not until it was too late, not until he was so broken and empty that he didn't have the heart to fight any more. He hadn't known it was an enemy he was fighting and not his own despair. *Why didn't you come to me?* But maybe he was coming, that afternoon that Rachel died. Maybe if they'd met that night at the bar, maybe--

Maybe Connor--

*My true brother.* 

It seemed like a very long time before Methos and Dawson appeared. Methos sat his guests down and fed them fruit and cheese, strong spiced tea, and eggs. It was a strange breakfast. When the porridge was done, he served that too, with honey and a little milk. Throughout the meal, no one said much of anything, and both of them watched MacLeod with sad eyes. 

"I need to shovel the steps and go shopping," Methos said as he cleared away the plates.

MacLeod thought about cold air and snow and being able to move. "I'll come with you," he said.

Methos laid a hand on his shoulder. "No, you will stay here and stand guard." He pointed at Joe. "There sits our future, the only one we can live with. *There* is the Watcher leadership that does not believe in kidnapping immortals and warehousing them against their will in eternal torment. If we are not very careful, he will be replaced."

"All right."

Methos sighed and hugged him. 

Joe disappeared into the den and soon he could be heard on the phone. No doubt there was a lot of work to do. He probably wouldn't have field assignments any more....

MacLeod began to clear the table, but he had not had a dishwasher since the antique store, and he could not remember if the glasses went on the top or the bottom. Then he could not find the soap to do the dishes by hand, and it struck him as evil and unjust, that he should be worried about washing up when Connor was dead. 

He went to the back door and pulled aside the curtain so he could look out onto the tiny courtyard. It was paved, of course. Like Duncan, Methos must never have gotten used to the idea of lawns. There were small evergreens in huge pots and a bench. The snow lay over everything, nearly an inch thick now. The cold leached through the glass and jumped several inches to lie, cool and soothing, against his face. 

"Mac?"

He had not heard Joe coming, but he did not jump at the sound of his voice. It was all he could do to nod that he was listening.

"I wanted to say, I'm sorry for your loss. And I'm so, so sorry for the role we played in it. Connor MacLeod. He was...." Joe stopped and swallowed. "We--we have him, Mac." 

"I know." He had knelt, weeping, with Connor's body in his arms. A part of him never wanted to move, but Kell was still out there. *Come here,* he'd shouted. *Whoever you are get over here now*. Stumbling, terrified, a man had crept out of the shadows: Duncan's current Watcher, he'd supposed. *You take him*, Duncan had ordered. *And you take care of him. I'm taking him home, do you understand me*? The man had gulped and nodded, and MacLeod had forced himself to let go of Connor and walk away. 

"I'm so sorry." 

The tears rose again at that. They burned in his eyes and throat. There were a pressure on his face and a terrible weight in his heart. MacLeod gritted his teeth against the mounting pain. "Please, go," he gasped, his throat closing on whatever else he might have said. He could not bear this kindness. He did not deserve it. Or perhaps, he did, because, oh, how it hurt. Perhaps it was just that he hurt this much....MacLeod closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the cold glass, trying to beat back the tears before they swamped him again. 

*Connor*. There was so much he should have said. So many things he could have done. *But you said them, didn't you. You told him you loved him. You offered him everything. And it still wasn't enough*.

Shuddering, he forced the tears back. And again. And again. In a moment of sudden, unwanted sympathy, he understood the grief that was so great that Connor had wanted to die--which only, perversely, made him angrier at Connor for leaving him.

Methos stormed into the kitchen and tossed an armload of grocery bags onto the counter. He was in stocking-feet, with his jacket still on and snow melting in his hair. "What the hell did you say to Joe?" he thundered. "He has gathered his things. He has called for a car. He is waiting by the door--"

Before he had finished, Duncan was running. Frantic, unsure what had gone wrong, but understanding that it was happening again, that he was the cause, *again* and unable to bear it. 

The hall was short; it gave him no time to think. When he staggered to a halt in Methos' tiny living room, MacLeod had no idea what to say, or how to fix it, or even what, exactly was driving Joe away. He opened his mouth--and had nothing. The pain rose up again, and this time he could not stop the tears that followed. 

Joe, putting on his coat, paused to look at MacLeod in hesitant confusion. 

Don't leave, he thought, and his throat seized around the words and produced a horrible sound. Methos gently caught him from behind. MacLeod turned and shoved him off. "Damn you! Damn you for leaving me!" He was horrified that finally he could speak and *that* came out of his mouth. It wasn't even Joe or Methos he meant, it was Connor, and Connor had never *mean*t to--

Connor had exactly meant to leave him. And since Methos would not kill him and Sanctuary could not hold him, he had forced Duncan to carry his quickening. 

Duncan began to scream.

 

***

The world was quiet and slow. MacLeod was back on Methos' couch, he realized. The yelling had stopped, and so had most of the terrible pain. He was on his side, facing rearward, but he was not alone; Methos sat behind him, pressed against his back, and he was reaching around to wipe MacLeod's face with a damp washcloth. A solitary sob heaved through him, but it was a weak thing and it was only one. 

Methos hushed him gently and then said, "Believe it or not, this actually a good sign. It is poisonous to live in a world that treats grief so poorly. He'd be much better off if he had a good way to honor his pain. Something formal."

"Do I even want to know," Joe muttered.

"Like not bathing for a year. Or wearing rags. Or sitting in an ash pit for a while." He sighed and wiped away a stray tear with the cool cloth. "That's what happens when the death rate drops. Grieving becomes uncool." He sighed again. "Joe...this may take a while."

"I understand," Joe said. "You're warning me. Longer than my lifetime." 

"N-No!" Frantic again, MacLeod turned over. "No, I promise!"

Murmuring reassurances, Methos caught him mid-flight and shifted them both so that MacLeod was in his lap. "It's all right. Relax. Yes, I know. Joe is fine. He is not going anywhere. I have convinced him you are distraught, and I cannot manage you by myself." He leaned down to add in a whisper, "I could not have done that last without your enthusiastic help. Well done, by the way." 

MacLeod tried to smile to return their kindness, but another tear leaked out. Methos made little tisking noises and caught this tear, too. "Joe, why don't you make some of that tea, hmmm?"

Joe left them alone in the quiet, quiet room. Methos began to gently card Duncan's short hair. A quieting gesture, and he felt himself relax. "I'm sorry," he said.

"What for? For this? Duncan do you remember the night I brought Alexa to Paris? You met the plane and took me home with you. I spent most of the night weeping in your arms. And even if I didn't owe you this and more, it would be no trouble to me."

MacLeod thought about that. "Why?" he asked.

"Because I love you, as you very well know."

Oh. Yes, he did know. "Will you forgive me?"

"If you go back to that monastery, then no, I will not." 

The threat made the hollowness inside expand. He whispered, "I won't go back."

Methos only patted his shoulder and continued to stroke his hair.

"Are you and Joe together?"

Methos sighed, making a show of amused regret to cover any deeper pain. "Alas, no. He has convinced himself that his feelings for you are some sort of ... aberration, and that he isn't actually interested in men. However. He has forgiven me for trying to change his mind."

"I'm sorry." 

"So am I." 

"Is it still snowing?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. There may be no Amanda tonight, either."

"Ah." 

Joe returned then with a cup of tea. Obediently, MacLeod sat up and drank. He tasted spearmint and catnip and mugwort and something pungent and strange. As soon as he finished, Methos tucked him with a pillow and a blanket. Already, he was feeling a little light headed. Obviously, he'd been sedated, but never mind. Surely it was time he gave up and conceded that Methos might, somehow, know what he was doing. 

***

When he woke it was dimmer and he could hear distant sounds of traffic. He could also hear what seemed to be Joe chewing someone out, but since the pauses were not filled by Methos, he assumed that the argument must be taking place over the phone. 

MacLeod rose slowly, worrying at his new beard with the tips of his fingers. Too long since he'd shaved. Too long since he'd washed at all. Ugh, he had not even taken off his shoes since...night before last? Hoping he did not stink too badly, he wandered out to the den where Joe had made his encampment. 

"I have taken note of your concerns, Tse, but the decision is made. Sanctuary is in my jurisdiction, and it's my call. Until we have a secure location and some kind of humane plan of operation, the project is shut down...." Joe's French was still just barely passable, and Duncan found himself correcting it in his head. "You are welcome to do whatever you want in your territory. No....No....No....No...." He caught sight of MacLeod lurking in the doorway and smiled briefly, "No....If it's necessary.....No." 

Silently, Duncan crept in and laid a hand on Joe's shoulder.

"No....No, that's up to you..... Au revoir." Joe snapped the cell phone shut and tossed onto the couch. It wasn't a far enough throw to make the gesture look very satisfying, but a wordless snarl vented the irritation he'd been keeping check on the phone. "Sorry I woke you, Mac."

"Forget it. I've slept most of the day, I think." 

"How are you doing?"

Reluctant to lie and unwilling to look too closely at the truth, MacLeod shrugged and changed the subject. "How much trouble are you in?"

"At this point, not much. I've got my own people stationed up the street and there are only three questionable persons still at large anyway." 

"Your own people? How many people have you got?" He shifted the phone out of the way and sat down on the couch. 

"Oh. Some. I've...Well, I've been running the Academy for the last year or so." 

MacLeod blinked in surprise. "Really? You're kidding. You never mentioned it."

"Yeah. Well. I didn't think you wanted to talk about Watcher business." 

Running the Watcher Academy. For a year. "It's in Geneva!"

"I've been traveling a lot. And don't look at me like that. You had my phone number." Not saying, you could have called at any time. Not saying, you never did.

"So...do I say 'congratulations on the promotion'?" 

"Good Lord, no. I'll spend the rest of my life trying to keep this organization from self-destructing and taking your people with it. And frankly, Mac--"

The computer desk butted right up against the couch. He didn't even have to lean forward to reach out and take Joe's hand. "If anyone can work miracles, it's you, Joe." He'd meant that to be encouraging. Even to himself, though, it sounded patronizing. Joe grimaced, but didn't call him on it. Something else he was indebted for.... "So how'd you get the job?"

"The former number 2 guy had to be sanctioned for interfering with a Challenge last night."

And that sound so ominously *wrong*. "What?"

"He decided to kill three birds with one stone; solve the Sanctuary problem, neutralize the (completely horrifying) current frontrunner in the Game for cheating, and take charge of an Immortal who keeps interfering in Watcher business. Very tidy. Also in violation of policy. We're pretty sure his boss wasn't in on it, but he's been suspended while we investigate his incompetence. So." 

It was clear from the description which Challenge he was talking about. It was also clear, from the look in Joe's eyes, that he was the one who had interrupted the plan to do the 'sanctioning' and what form it had taken. "Damn."

"Yeah. Well. Thems the breaks. Mac--I didn't know about Sanctuary."

"Methos told me you didn't know about Connor." 

"I didn't know *anyone* was being held under those conditions. And I wasn't looking for Connor. I was sure he was dead."

"Really? You never said. You just kept saying...if he was sighted you would tell me."

"Yeah. Well. It was just my opinion, and you weren't ready to hear it. It wasn't even a professional opinion. I just....I couldn't believe anyone would run out on you. No matter what."

MacLeod closed his eyes on the tears that rose up again. "I'm sorry!" Joe said, and slid an arm around his shoulders. "I didn’t mean--Connor was in a bad way. He had reason. He didn't--" 

MacLeod shook his head. The tears weren't for Connor this time. He, himself, had run out, and he had never called. He'd thought only of protecting them. He had thought nothing of loving them. "Methos forgave me. For leaving. Can you--" He stopped and breathed. "I’m sorry. I should not have left my life." 

Joe looked at the floor. "I understood," he muttered.

"If it's not too late, I'd like to come back."

"Can you? The problem wasn't that you didn't want your friends near you. The problem was that you couldn't *bear* us near you."

"I'm still...afraid, Joe. I still dream about O'Rourke. I still dream about Richie. But I will not do to all of you what Connor did to me. I know I can't...live with that." 

"Then we'll find a way."

The front door opened and a minute later Methos appeared, in stocking feet again and red from the cold. "It's stopped snowing. Amanda may make it after all. I've cleared the steps and walk, but it's very cold and I don’t recommend going for a walk. Anyone for cocoa?"

When they got to the kitchen, though, MacLeod forgot about the cocoa. The sky was clear, and although the sun was too low to shine directly, the snow looked translucent and inviting. He slipped out the back door and down the short set of steps to the tiny courtyard. Leaving his shoes and socks at the foot of the steps, he padded silently into the undisturbed snow. The cold was shocking and painful against his feet, but it was also real in a way that the nightmare that haunted him had been denying. Air and light and the cold, solid ground. The weight in his soul eased a little. 

Tentatively, he made the first few moves in a form he'd learned from Mai Ling. They had done this in the snow, so many times. He could remember the quiet night sky and the peace of the steppes. At first, the cold bothered him. So did the sight of Methos and Joe, watching worriedly from the window. After a few minutes, all that faded away, stripping him of everything but the shape of movement and the rise and fall of his own chi. His mind cleared, leaving him with a wordless pain, but soon that pain faded, too.

When he finished it was dark, and the snow around his feet was trampled into half-melted ice. Panting, dripping with sweat, he stumbled over to collect his shoes and pulled himself up the steps to the kitchen door. Joe and Methos looked up from their coffee as he came in, Joe with frank concern and Methos with patient encouragement. Methos offered MacLeod a glass of water (which was eagerly drained) and said, "The shower is upstairs. I laid out some clean sweats." 

Grateful but inarticulate, MacLeod nodded and headed upstairs.

The water felt wonderful. Cool against the fevered heat of his workout, it leached out the filth and some of the emptiness as well. For a moment he felt guilty about how very good it felt, standing in Methos' shower, feeling the water pelt his skin....How could he be comfortable and happy, in a world where Connor was dead? What right did he have to joy, when he had *let* his only kin fall into such desperation and hopelessness that death had seemed his only option? He laid his hands flat against the tiles of the wall and groaned. He had no business finding comfort in living.

Downstairs, Joe and Methos waited. They both loved him dearly. They had risked their lives to protect his--and not only in the last week, but many times before--and they were offering every kindness they had. He had no right to refuse comfort while they lived and cared and waited for him. He would not do to them what Connor had done to him. Never. *And Connor*--

MacLeod closed his eyes and turned his face to the water. *My suffering and guilt would mean nothing to him now. He's dead. That's what dead means.*

Oh, it hurt.

*Yes, it hurts. But I will not let myself become him*.

When he finally left the bathroom, clean and dry and dressed in Methos' sweats, he was calm and in control. Halfway down the stairs, a fresh buzz hit him, two more Immortals tangled against the background hum of Methos. A moment later the doorbell rang, and Amanda's voice crowed, "It's us."

MacLeod waited unmoving as Methos passed the bottom of the stairs and went to open the door. From where he was standing he could see Amanda and Nick. She leaped through the door and hugged Methos hard, whispering something in his ear before spotting MacLeod and sprinting up the stairs to embrace him.

She had changed her perfume, but underneath he could smell pure Amanda. Her hands around his waist were solid and familiar. MacLeod felt the soft burn of threatening tears again.

Her soft lips brushed his ear as she whispered, "Now we are both orphaned," and pulled him closer. "Oh, my love, I am so sorry." 

"I'm glad you came," he managed. He was surprised to find how glad he was. He let himself lean into her arms, and she clung strongly, holding him back.

For a long time they stood like that, then Amanda leaned back and captured his face in her hands. "What ever you need from me," she breathed. "I mean it, Duncan. Anything."

Involuntarily, he glanced down to the entryway, where Nick was pretending to pay attention to taking his coat off and talking to Joe and Methos. 

"Don't worry about that," she told him. "We've talked about it. It's all right. He understands." 

MacLeod hugged her once more, kissed her forehead, and steeled himself to go downstairs.

***

Methos had made chicken stew for dinner, an old fashioned kind with carrots and prunes and served over potatoes. It was good. MacLeod wasn't hungry, but he made himself eat. Conversation was subdued, and what little there was was carried by Joe and Amanda who stayed on neutral topics. Packed in around the small table, drinking Methos' good wine and listening to Amanda go on about the horrors of air travel these days...It was cozy. It was comfortable. It was safe.

Afterward, he could never have repeated any of the conversation, but he did stay present enough to watch. Nick spent the evening furtively looking from MacLeod to Amanda and back again, like someone pretending they weren't watching a tennis match. Joe, meanwhile, was watching MacLeod and Nick worriedly, even while he listened to Amanda. Methos seemed to be playing host; filling wine glasses, getting more gravy, offering desert. You could never really tell what Methos was thinking unless he wanted you to. 

It was almost midnight by the time they'd finished eating and washing up. "Joe has the den and I am taking the living room sofa. The rest of you get the second floor."

"I've seen closets smaller than your den," Amanda complained. "You can't put Joe there. What about your third floor?"

"My third floor is storage. I've....accumulated a few things."

Joe patted her shoulder. "I'm avoiding the stairs."

The main bedroom upstairs was large and spacious. It accomplished this by taking the entire width of the townhouse and almost half the length. The rest of the second floor was divided into the bathroom, a tiny laundry room, and two claustrophobic 'guest rooms,' each barely large enough to hold one double bed pushed against the wall. There were shelves and triangular closets, but no dressers and the walkway was tight. 

Looking at the layout, MacLeod realized that Methos meant for Amanda to join him in the bigger bed. He shook his head. "Amanda, you and Nick take the big room. You'll be more comfortable."

She looked at him worriedly. "Duncan--" 

He put an arm around her shoulder and whispered in her ear, "He's too young. When I was with Tessa--"

"He understands! And anyway, I came here for you. Whatever you need--"

The child with Amanda might have said that he understood, but he was still clearly living his first life. He had no idea what love meant, not when it wasn't tangled in a trap of fear and speeding time. "I need you to be my friend. My oldest friend, now. I need to know you'll be there--"

"Always. Always."

Duncan closed his eyes. He had not meant this conversation to be so difficult. "I’m going to Scotland. I don’t--I don't want to go alone." He should go alone. Surely, it was his burden to bear. Surely his friends did not deserve to be dragged with him halfway across the world for this sad and ultimately empty gesture. 

She squeezed his hand. "Never. I promise." She brushed at her own tears, than his. "And, hey, by the time we get to Scotland, we'll practically have an army." 

So they took Methos' room and MacLeod took one of the guest rooms. Clean and well fed and so tired, he fell asleep almost at once. But he woke up again before very long and was faced with the darkness and his own lonesome company. Outside it was still night, and snow was falling again, glittering in the streetlights.

Two nights ago, Kell had slaughtered another half-dozen Immortals. His own people, probably, Dawson would know. And then Connor--

MacLeod could not imagine taking so many quickenings at once. A man who could might well win the Game. No wonder Connor had been afraid. *Imagine if there was only one person left in the world whom I loved.*

*How can I forgive you?*

*How can I forgive myself for failing you?*

Outside, the snow was coming down harder. He should rouse himself tomorrow to find a weather report. Sooner or later he would have to make travel plans. Amanda had implied that quite a number of people would be traveling with him.

*How will I lay you in the ground and say good-bye?*

The darkness and stillness was unbearable. He got up and, wrapped in a bathrobe Methos had left for him, padded into the hall. The wooden floors were cold and creaked ever so slightly. There was no nightlight, and he found his path by tracing a finger along the wall. 

Amanda was asleep. He could hear her quiet breathing. And Nick's snores. He supposed they made a cute couple. Amanda had long threatened to settle down and play house for sixty or seventy years...He would help, if he could figure out how. Amanda deserved love and trust and stability if she wanted it. 

But he would stop pretending it was none of his business and ask Dawson about this Nick Wolf, though.

He crept down the stairs. He did now want to wake anyone. Joe and Adam had probably not gotten a lot of quality sleep these last few days. Still, he did want to check on them. Just to make sure everything was all right. 

He should have checked on Connor more often. It was too late for that now, though. 

The door to Methos' tiny den was shut. There was no light coming under the crack and no sound from within. MacLeod wanted--badly--to open it and be sure that everything was all right. But everything in this house seemed to creak. If he opened the door and woke Joe, he would have to explain, never mind costing the poor man some sleep. He turned and crept to the living room, instead. 

A little light came in the windows here, but still he couldn't make out the couch where Methos would be sleeping. In the distance he could hear a snowplow. It was late--or rather early--and daylight and certainty both seemed very far away. 

"Duncan? What's wrong?" The whisper floated out of the darkness of the living room. 

"Nothing. I couldn't sleep." 

"Come here." And then, as he hesitated, it came more gently: "Come here." 

Setting each foot carefully, he tried to picture the layout of the furniture as he crept to the couch. There were patterns of light on the ceiling, but the floor and furniture were in utter darkness. 

"Here," Methos said, and following the whisper like a trail, MacLeod knelt beside the couch. There was a rustle of covers. "Get in, it's cold out there."

"Not that cold."

"MacLeod--"

"No. No, it would be using you." 

"Using me?" Methos sounded more irritated than amused. "Because you don't think I'm beautiful?" 

MacLeod found himself smiling at that. "You know I do."

"Then because you don't want me?"

"From the moment I met you." 

"Then because you don't love me?"

"Methos, don't--"

"It's that then? You don't love me."

"You know I do."

An extravagant sigh. MacLeod found himself wishing he could see the old man's face; he must be putting on quite a show. "If it's because you have no honorable intentions, I don't want to marry you anyway."

Despite himself, MacLeod laughed. And then he clapped a hand over his mouth to stop the mirth before it could become tears.

"Get in. It's cold." 

Still, he hesitated. They had never been lovers. They had been headed that way, more than once, but first Alexa had come up and then Kronos. 

"Please, Duncan. I promise it's better than wandering around the house all night."

He hitched up the robe and slipped under the blanket. The couch was just wide enough that if they lay on their sides and held on to one another, MacLeod would not fall off. He braced himself against Methos' bear shoulder and sighed.

"You're cold."

"Sorry."

Methos pulled him closer. "It wasn't a complaint....Mmmm. Much better." 

"You know I used to think about this. About wanting you."

He felt the tolerant smile it was too dark to see. "Used to?"

"Last spring, when the flowers were blooming. I kept seeing you lying in the new grass...."

"You have mistaken me badly if you think I'll make love to anyone on new grass. Or any grass at all." 

"Right. What was I thinking? Furs?"

"Not hardly."

MacLeod found a small laugh escaping and let it go. "A really narrow couch?"

"Doubtful. But maybe in a few weeks. If you are very nice to me..."

"Oh, I've missed you! Seriously. Methos. We--I--"

Under the blanket it was warm. Methos' body was long and solid. "I will be here when you are ready." 

He could barely get a hand between them to run light fingers over Methos' nose. "And if I am ready now?"

"Now. Later. I have waited for you since the beginning of time, it's all the same to me. Actually, I've gotten quite used to waiting. I could just go on as I have." They were lying so closely that they were talking past each other's cheeks. Methos turned his head just a little and kissed him. "If all you need is to be known and loved, I am content."

MacLeod managed to hold back the words for nearly three seconds. "Make me forget--Please--" Now was *not* the time. MacLeod didn't care.

Methos was already kissing him. It very quickly became an amazing kiss, sweet and filling. Breathless, dizzy, MacLeod brought his hands up to Methos' soft hair--

\--and nearly fell backwards off the narrow couch. Still kissing, Methos laughed as he caught him. "Only for you on a couch. And only this once." 

MacLeod squirmed, got a knee under him, and shifted them both so that Methos was lying on his back and MacLeod was crouched over him. "At your venerable--" the tease would have been, "At your venerable age, I'm sure you've learned ways to compensate," but Methos twitched open the robe and fastened his teeth on MacLeod's left nipple. He lost words, he lost time, he could only gasp and squirm, as the wonder beneath him did *something* with his tongue and shivers of fire spread throughout MacLeod's body. "God--"

"Not for a very long time, and it wasn't actually as much fun as you'd think." 

It was unfair that Methos was still lucid enough to joke. MacLeod couldn't even find his voice, let alone put meaning to words. He shivered as strong hands--gentle and loving and completely ruthless--caressed his stomach. He gulped for air. His arms would barely hold him now, but if he fell Methos couldn't reach his stomach.... He heard a low whimper and realized it was his own. 

He had known--oh, he had known--that when the moment finally came he would be putty in Methos' hands. And he had known, all along, that the moment was coming. He had shied away from it and put it off, and now it had finally come and it was today, on the heels of his terrible loss. 

How unfair, to Methos and to himself. 

"Hush," Methos muttered, sliding his hand lower. He didn't fumble in the darkness. Steady and calm, the hands enveloped him, did something and a dozen fine points of pleasure ripped forth. Halfway through a yell, MacLeod clamped his teeth down and tried to breathe. "Relax. Just pay attention to this moment." 

He could not relax. He could not ignore or resist the great burning pleasure, though. The fierce unhappiness faded until all that remained was the hovering sense that something distant and forgotten was important. His head dropped to bend over Methos' shoulder. He could not think. He could not seem to breathe enough. He wanted desperately to move, but he could not hold still enough. The pleasure was like thirst, he wanted more....

It began to climax, and all traces of order slipped away.

When the world crept back again he was lying on top of Methos, who was gently playing with his hair. "Sorry," he muttered. "You ok?"

"Oh, yes."

"I should--"

"Hush. Go to sleep."

When he woke again it was still dark. Winter nights in New York were long. They had turned on the narrow bed, so now they were lying on their sides, Methos spooned behind him. There was barely room. It was sweetly intimate.

A soft noise came from the hall by the door; a repeat, he realized, of the sound that had woken him. Gently, MacLeod detached himself from Methos and ventured out of the covers. His feet found the robe on the floor, and he covered himself and went into the hall.

Joe had pulled aside the curtain that covered the narrow window beside door, and the light from the street outlined his face clearly. "What are you doing," MacLeod whispered. Joe was dressed. 

"I have an early meeting. A car is on the way."

MacLeod wondered how to ask about the wisdom of this without sounding patronizing. He gave up. "Is it safe?" 

Joe smiled mirthlessly at that. "Compared to what? Don't worry about it. Things are mostly under control. Besides, I can't stay here forever." He glanced out the window and frowned. "There's my ride. Don't worry. I'll be back tonight."

Before MacLeod could say anything else, he was gone in a burst of cold air. MacLeod stood in the entryway, unable to put his finger on what had been wrong with those last seconds. 

"No," Methos said from behind him, "We can *not* go with him. Not if he's to have any credibility at all. Now come on," trailing the corner of the blanked he'd wrapped around his shoulders, Methos headed up the stairs.

"Where?" MacLeod asked, unsure why he felt so thick and stupid.

"To a real bed. I told you, never again on that couch. Lock the door and come on." 

~TBC


	2. Snow: Day 2

 

When Duncan woke again it was to soft grey daylight. Almost at once, he found himself missing the narrow couch which had forced the two of them to cling to one another.  Here, on the wide, comfortable bed in Methos' guest room, they could lie side-by-side, barely touching.  Clinging had been better.

 Asleep, Methos looked scruffy and disordered. So often MacLeod thought of him as chill and distant, but just now he seemed warm and inviting. Kind of cuddly.

 Duncan smiled at that thought. He was touched by the trust he'd been granted, the sweet intimacy of this moment, the great patience Methos had shown.

  _Damn, damn_. So much could go wrong. So much had gone wrong already.

 "Will you stop that," Methos muttered without moving.

 "Stop what?"

 "The preemptive worrying. It doesn't actually help."  Methos stretched and turned onto his side. "It's going to be all right. I promise you, Duncan.  You will learn to live with this loss--"

 MacLeod shied away from the bald words. Methos caught his chin. "You will not follow that road yourself. You will not become him."

 Methos knew everything. Of course he did. MacLeod closed his eyes. "The day I met you--that night--was it so easy, then?"

 "What? Oh. That."

 "Yes, that," MacLeod said bitterly. "Why?"

 "Because I could not beat Kalas, and I doubted I could outrun him.  I was not prepared to let him slaughter his way through Watcher after Watcher as he searched for me."

 "You had to know I didn't want your head."

 "That was the only hope I had."

 "I don’t believe it." But MacLeod was not sure what he did believe, or what he was asking for.

 "Darius was dead. Rebeka was dead. Constantine, I did not know. Caeridwin and I had once been on opposite sides of a war. We avoided one another. My options were limited, and Kalas was not believed to be working alone." Gently, gently, he began to stroke MacLeod's hair. "I was not surprised when you returned my life. I admit, your chronicles were very revealing. And Joe used to talk about you with such great respect and joy." He smiled. "I have never regretted meeting you, or receiving your help."

 "Or what you've done for me?"

 "Never, my friend."

 MacLeod sighed and closed his eyes.

 Methos kissed his face. And again, and again. "It will be all right. I promise you. All things pass, even this."

 "Even this," MacLeod repeated, but he could still see the last look in Connor's eyes.

 ***

 Amanda was making breakfast when they came downstairs. Omelets, which was safe enough. She was a good cook, when she tried and when she didn't feel the cuisine was beneath her. Her French food was excellent. So was her Spanish. English food, though, was even worse in her hands than it tended to be usually. You had to watch her.

 She was cooking that morning. And being nice. So nice, in fact, that if MacLeod hadn't already known why, he would have worried about how much trouble she was about to get him into. She was gentle and encouraging, but a little subdued. Amanda's first response to grief--hers or anyone else's--was passion. With Duncan hands-off, she was clearly at a loss.

 After breakfast, Methos--whom Amanda was calling "Adam" and Wolf was calling "Regie"-- headed out again to shovel snow.

 MacLeod watched him from the window, thinking that he really should help, feeling that there wasn't really much point since more snow would probably fall anyway.

 _Ohhh_ , he thought, trying to find it funny. The mood swings were bad today.

 Methos grinned at him through the window, and went three houses down to shovel snow around a particularly large and expensive SUV. There wasn't enough snow around to quite pack it immobile, but given how closely the cars were parallel parked, the owner would have a hard time getting out.

 "I see you taught the git who owns that monster a lesson," MacLeod said as Methos came in.

 That innocent, charming smile. "Yes, didn't I? He was asking for it. Or her."

 "But I seem to remember that you've owned cars at least that expensive."

 "Yeah? So?"  Still innocent and cheerful, even faced with his own inconsistency. "Get your coat on. Let's go for a walk. Where's Amanda and Nick? Well, come on."

 So they walked. The snow hadn't turned gray yet. Not all of the streets had been cleared, and the thin blanket muffled the sounds of the city a little.

 They walked a long way, but not very fast. There were still patches of ice on the sidewalks here and there, and anyway, Amanda and Methos kept slowing down to discuss architecture. Just behind them, Wolf seemed interested almost despite himself. The buildings were small and close, but grand and soulful in their way. At the rear of their party, MacLeod couldn't hear most of what was said, but he wasn't really interested anyway. Moving was enough. He breathed in the cold air and let his mind wander.

 They stopped at a jewelry store, where Amanda teased Wolf by pretending to case the diamond counter.  They stopped at an antique store, where Methos bought several tiny amber glass crystals which he said he needed for the chandelier in the front hall. They stopped at a deli, but for supplies, not for a meal. They had Ethiopian food for lunch, eating collards and lentils and buckwheat pancakes with their fingers.

On the way home, Duncan thought about the auxiliary storage Connor had kept within a few miles of here. Personal effects, more than a thousand square feet of them in a warehouse just past I 278. Furniture and clothing and documents, all of it old, all of it useless and precious.  Duncan had a key, not here, not with him, but--

 He would have to deal with it eventually. He would have to clean out the warehouse. He would have to rescue what he could from the nest above the antique store, would have to clean out the house in Manchester, would have to see the solicitor and take possession of Connor's portfolios.... 

He would have to take the body home. 

He could not even think about it today. Instead, he took off his damp shoes and fell asleep on Methos' couch. In the kitchen, he could hear Methos and Amanda teaching Wolf some Viking game. Wolf seemed to be a congenial loser, at least. 

When he woke properly he was thoroughly tired of his own misery. It was a stage of grief he knew well, like the sleeping and the apathy, but MacLeod hadn't expected to see it so soon.

He went to the kitchen, where his babysitters were playing three-handed canasta, and began to rummage through Methos' cupboards. He found the cornmeal and a vacuum-sealed pouch of almonds. There were three kinds of cheese in the fridge, trophies from the stop at the deli. Polenta, then. Lamb chops, very nice. A bag of lovely salad greens, which seemed out of place against his memories of winter. It would make a very nice dinner.

From the table, Amanda, who was behind this round, said pointedly, "Aren't you going to offer to help?"

"Why?" Methos said. "He's a better cook than any of us."

"It's your house. You should be hostly."

"My greatest success is making my guests feel at home. Oh, look, another red three. That makes all four." 

MacLeod puttered and played in the kitchen. He made an appetizer out of bread and tomato and a fresh, white mozzarella from the deli. He fretted about not having croutons for the salad, then used the rest of the bread to make some himself. He wished there could be soup, but there was no time to prepare a stock, and while Methos had some canned chicken broth in the cupboard, there was no way he was using _that_.

It was half-past eight when he finally served the main course. There had been no word from Joe, but Methos wasn't worried, so MacLeod pushed his concern aside and addressed his dinner--

Which he was not, it seemed, actually interested in eating, now that he came down to it. He ate one lamb chop, because Amanda was watching. He nibbled at the polenta, which tasted dry and flat. Mostly, he pushed his food around on his plate.

It seemed to take forever for the others to finish.

Methos volunteered himself and Nick to do the cleaning up. Almost sorry to lose the activity, MacLeod wandered out to the living room. Amanda followed after him and took up a seat on the couch.  Without saying anything, she rested her head against his shoulder.

Damn. He was depressing all of them with his endless grief.  It wasn't good for Immortals to get too serious. So often, they had a great deal to be serious about. Extended melancholy wasn't self-limiting. Even so, he couldn't bring himself to shoo her away.

"I should be making plans," he said at last.

"What, for travel? The tickets arrived this afternoon while you were asleep."

"Oh." He felt vaguely embarrassed about that. It was his duty, his responsibility. Surely, in death at least, he ought to be of some use to Connor. "I shouldn't have left him with the Watcher. I should have brought him home and laid him out properly."

"Is that even legal any more?"

"Oh. Probably not."

They sat in silence. Amanda sighed. MacLeod said, "I shouldn't be dragging you through this. If I had any strength at all, I would send you away."

"What makes you think I would go?"

"I love you. You--you know that?" He had not meant it to be a question. 

"Of course, I do. And Connor knew it, too."

They were too canny, these old ones. "I spent almost four years on holy ground because I was too dangerous to be around, but being far away from me didn't protect Connor."

"Oh, Sweetheart. Things change, we can't really control very much, and people die. If you expect you can do anything to change that--or if you think any of that is your fault, you're just wrong."

They sat in silence until Methos joined them and turned on the news.  After the weather, Amanda collected her partner and the two of them retreated up to bed. Methos eventually shifted from the TV to a novel by Neil Gaiman, and MacLeod began to dwell on the fact that it was nearing midnight and they hadn't heard from Dawson since before dawn.

That didn't necessarily mean anything. The man had one hell of a mess to clear up. And Joe was used to working late.

He peeked into the tiny den. The small overnight bag was still there, and the ziplock bag of soap and shampoo. MacLeod would have expected the sight to be reassuring, but somehow....

He would worry less if he thought Joe had just taken off by choice. Wouldn't he?

In the living room, Methos continued reading. MacLeod, wandering the length of the house, peeked in on him from time to time. Kitchen, hall, front door. Front door, hall, kitchen.

It was nearing one when, flipping aside the curtain for a cursory glance out front, MacLeod saw a very nondescript car pause.  It waited only a moment: Joe got out, and then it was gone. Mindful of Methos' warning about Joe's credibility, MacLeod did not join him outside and made himself wait until Joe had reached the stoop to open the door.

Joe, frozen in the act of raising his hand to knock, blinked at him in the porch-light. "Oh," he said. "Hi."

MacLeod, tasting an angry reply on his tongue, clamped his teeth together and stepped back so he wasn't blocking the door. No matter what else, he wasn't going to pick a fight, not now.

While Joe was taking off his coat, Methos poked his head around the wide doorway to the living room. "Ah," he said. "Safe and sound, I see. I'm all in." He nodded at the proper bedrooms upstairs. "I left a plate in the fridge, take your time." Smiling, he kissed them each on both cheeks. MacLeod and Joe had spent enough time in Europe to think nothing of the gesture. They watched him go upstairs.

"Hungry?" MacLeod asked.

"Well, I had lunch at about two this afternoon. I guess I am."

MacLeod was very polite and reasonable as he led the way to the kitchen and located the dinner Methos had put aside.

Joe watched him narrowly while he ate, but MacLeod was determined to be calm and reasonable. He smiled kindly and waited.  Finally, when the plate was empty, he said carefully, "When Kell attacked Sanctuary, I felt it halfway around the world." To his satisfaction, his voice didn't shake at all. Good. He was going to be reasonable. He was going to explain. He wasn't going to get angry or fall apart. He wasn't.  "When Kell slaughtered his posse, it woke me up out of a sound sleep. If anything happened to Amanda, I would know. I would know. And if anything happened to Methos, well, the whole city would know it."

Joe, watching him warily, nodded once.

"But you are mortal. If anything happened to you I would not know. And frankly, I don't think your people would call me."

"Oh. Mac, I--"

"I realize I have no claim on your movements, and you certainly don't owe me a report. But. I. I."

Joe's hand snaked across the table and squeezed MacLeod's arm. "I get it. I'm sorry."

"You don't owe me an apology. You didn't do anything wrong--"

"You're in a bad place to be worrying right now. I get that. I didn't think--"

"I didn't even begin to worry until after eight. That could have been hours too late. I--"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to hurt you. I wasn't. I just--I couldn't stand it. I'm sorry."

Joe's hand was cool but sweating slightly. He was solid and living--just fine, damn it--there was nothing to be upset about. There was nothing to be angry at. There was.... What?  "You couldn't stand what?" MacLeod asked, trying to stay present and pay attention to the merely unhappy moment he was in, rather than the truly devastating moments he _might_ have had to face.

For a few moments, Joe looked past him at the stove. "Look, you know it's not... I mean, I don't begrudge either of you anything. And certainly, right now, you have a little comfort coming." Briefly, he met MacLeod's eyes and smiled sadly. "It's not like I could ever compete with _him_. It's not like I'd ever even try. But I just... couldn't watch. I couldn't be here and I didn't think about what you would think if I suddenly disappeared. I'm sorry."

Mystified, MacLeod shook his head. "Compete with--?" Him. "With Methos? Joe, it was never--" He stopped and lowered his voice, trying to pull back enough to understand what was going on.  "It was never a choice between you. Never."

But apparently he still didn't get it, because this wasn't helping. In fact, if the look on Joe's face right then was any gauge, he was making things worse. "Right. Of course, not." He smiled tightly and tried to take his hand back.

MacLeod wouldn't let him have it. "You're talking about us. You're talking about you and me." Yes, that was correct. "But Joe, there was never any choice. You _know_ it was impossible. It wasn't worth your life."

Joe visibly deflated. With his eyes closed he said, "If this is another discussion of how you are too dangerous to be close to anybody, let's just not have it, okay?"

"No, this isn't about me! This is about you.  If we had ever been together, they would have had you killed for it."

Joe went very, very still.

"We couldn't have kept it from them. Sooner or later they would have found out.  It wasn't worth that price."

For long seconds, Joe stared at him, slowly unraveling Duncan MacLeod with his eyes. Finally, he said, "So what did you think my tribunal was about?"

"Talking to Immortals. Falsifying records. Interfering." No, surely not. "Joe, not--we _weren't_!"

"They all assumed we were. You ditch your watcher whenever you feel like it--never mind all the days when the only person on you was me--and they didn't have anything like a full accounting of everywhere I'd been and with whom for the previous two years. As far as they were concerned, we had opportunity."

Shaken, MacLeod whispered, "They didn't... they read the charges formally.  That wasn't there."

"Well, it didn't need to be. They had me on the other charges. You have to understand, Shapiro was very American. Shooting a man for treason, well, okay. But branding a man forever as a queer?  Having that go in the record for all time? In his opinion that was too much. Cruel and unusual punishment. And way too embarrassing to talk about anyway. Even though everybody in that room assumed it was going on."

He remembered Joe, in that dim, dank basement saying, _I did what I had to do._  In a fury, Shapiro had turned on him, snarling, _What you had to do? or what you_ wanted _to do_?

"I didn't know...."

Joe managed to smile at that. "Obviously."

"I guess I pretty much proved their point when I showed up to rescue you, huh?"

Joe shrugged.

"I'm sorry."

Joe smiled a little and shook his head. "Forget it. Well. Don't forget it. You know what it meant to me, your coming."

MacLeod closed his eyes. "It was a waste. All those years, I was so careful not to touch you. It was all a waste."  Then, inexplicably, irresistibly, he found himself smiling. "What you're saying is, the worst has already happened. We have nothing to lose."

Joe shrugged again. "I guess so." He looked away. "If you were to proposition me right now, then no, you wouldn't be risking anything."

Duncan remembered a spring afternoon in Seacover, squatting in an alley, confronting those smooth, hard men with the surveillance equipment that had given them away. Joe had been so calm then, taking their place as the target of MacLeod's rage and vengeance. Irritatingly, he hadn't been afraid. In fact, he'd been almost happy, unworried about MacLeod's fury, gently facing down an Immortal he couldn't hope to defeat.  _If you were to proposition me right now, you wouldn't be risking anything_. He clutched Joe's hand between both of his and wondered what to say in the face of this courage

"It's ok, Mac. This is a hell of a time to be having this conversation."

"I remember when you left them. When you resigned, I mean. Because of me. You were so unhappy. I thought you had changed your mind." MacLeod took a deep breath. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. I was content being your historian. I was content being your... your friend."

"Damn. There's a bed upstairs."

Joe shrugged. "The stairs are a bitch, though. This table looks pretty sturdy..." and he smiled as if to imply that he might be kidding.

MacLeod wasn't kidding. "How's the couch in the den?" he asked.

"Nice, actually. Narrow, but firm. Methos gave me a sleeping bag for it, not sheets, but it's--"

MacLeod leaned in and kissed him.  How strange the world was. Even in the wake of the devastation of losing Connor, still there was so much he hadn't lost. He had never let himself imagine what Joe tasted like. He'd never indulged in dreams of holding him or loving him.  Yet, here was all of that, better than he would have expected, if he had ever let himself expect. "Yes," he murmured, not even sure what question he was answering.

Joe freed his hand long enough to stand up and then gathered MacLeod to him. "My god, I've waited almost half my life for this." He laughed and lightly tugged MacLeod's hair. "Except I wasn't even _waiting_. Oh, crap," and he laughed again, but this time MacLeod could see real fear around his eyes. "You're going to see me naked."

For one moment, MacLeod was blissfully confused. Then understanding crashed in on him, ripping away his certainty and joy. Joe was worried about his legs.

In all the many mistakes he had made--and there were so many--he could not think what he could have ever said or done to make Joe imagine that MacLeod would reject him for that.

It didn't matter that he didn't see how it had happened, though. The evidence was quite plain.  Crushed by the weight of this new failure, he stumbled backwards and fetched up hard against the counter. "I'm sorry," he said, but too softly to even hear it himself. "I never meant--" But it didn't matter what he meant. He hadn't _meant_ to be of no use to Connor. He hadn't _meant_ to abandon Methos to four useless years of loneliness. 

He was sitting on the floor, not sure how he got there, feeling that he somehow wasn't low enough. He wanted to hide.

Joe leaned down and shook him. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Not for that. Never that. I swear. I'm so sorry."

As unlikely as it seemed, Joe actually understood what he meant. But of course he did. Joe knew him better than anyone, didn't he? Joe could see right through him. "Listen to me, damn it. That has nothing to do with you. It's baggage I carry with me."

Or perhaps Joe didn't know him at all. He was willing to forgive anything, to find excuses for failure after failure, coldness after coldness.  If Joe _knew_ Duncan MacLeod, he would not look at him with such bright affection, would never have stood so trustingly in that alley and placed his secrets along with his life in MacLeod's hands.

Methos was there, suddenly. He ran clinical hands over MacLeod's hands and arms, looked into his eyes, smelled his skin. Fumbling, wretched himself, Joe tried to explain, but Methos pushed his words aside. "It isn't you. This is about Connor, mostly, whatever set him off." He put a cup in MacLeod's hand and guided it to his mouth. MacLeod drank. He had no business denying these two anything. He would drink, if they wished.

Somehow, they got him on his feet again and bullied him up the stairs and onto the bed in the tiny guest room. There must have been something in the tea again, because the bed spun under him.  " _What a mess you are_ ," Connor said. He had to float outside the window and peer in, because Amanda had joined Methos and Joe and there wasn't room for another person to stand in the room. But floating outside was just fine. Connor was dead, after all.

MacLeod, knowing it wasn't real, closed his eyes. "Go away," he said. Life was bad enough without hallucinations.

Methos, meanwhile, was saying, "I may have to change the reservations. He can't travel like this."

" _That is true enough_ ," Connor said sourly. " _You can't defend yourself like this. You'd be meat right now, if you didn't have these four protecting you. I taught you better than that_."

"Leave me alone, you've nothing to say to me."

Methos leaned down and kissed him. "All right," he said.

"No, no, not _you_!" But the world was pale and blurred and MacLeod wasn't sure if he was speaking aloud. Certainly, he wasn't hearing anything anymore. He looked up at the window, at Connor staring down at him in disappointment, and wept.

He didn't think he slept. The pain dulled as the drug worked its way through his system. It passed over him like a cloud across the sun and left him feeling blank and slow.  He stared, not at the window, but at the second, empty pillow where Methos might have slept if MacLeod had not sent him away. It was very quiet, and he welcomed the thoughtlessness of it.

The pillow case was covered with tiny, blue flowers. When you looked at one flower for a long time, it popped out in sudden, surprising three dimensions and swam a moment in the air before popping back. He duplicated the trick again and again, watching the flowers dance against the white background.

Long before the game got boring, MacLeod became uncomfortable lying on his side. He turned over and froze.

Joe was watching him sadly from the doorway--which, in the tiny room put him within half a yard of the end of the bed. Inwardly, MacLeod sighed. He would have preferred to hide from this cataclysmic screw-up a little while longer. But, no.  After all, waiting wouldn't help.

Slowly MacLeod sat up against the low head-board and scooted over. After a moment, Joe came in and sat on the space that had been made beside him.  They sat for a while, saying nothing. Behind them, there was a slight draft from the window. In the far corner, a small spider was building a web.

When he had collected himself enough to speak, MacLeod said, "I wanted to hate you. I tried to hate you. I worked very hard at it. For the work you did."

"And the company I kept," Joe whispered.

"Yes. Especially for that." He sighed. "I couldn't even manage to dislike you. Always, you were on the side of compassion and forgiveness. You were brave and wise and patient.  You were kind. You were good."

"Mac, I--"

"No. You were good. No matter what happened, you never let your--your assumptions and boundaries stop you from doing the right thing. You always reached beyond yourself. No matter how angry I was with you, no matter how dangerous it was to trust you, I could never dislike you."

He glanced sideways to see what effect this confession had had. It was the kindest offering he could think of.  Joe was chewing on his upper lip. When he spoke, it seemed to be on another topic completely. "When I started as a Watcher, Connor was one of the top ten frontrunners. And of the frontrunners, one of the favorites. He was brave and strong and very, very good with a sword. He'd never kept slaves. He'd never beaten his wives. Every ten years or so, he'd go hunting some real bad-ass who would have enjoyed winning the prize.  We all thought that if Connor MacLeod wound up ruling the world, well, it wouldn't be so bad. You should have seen the parties when he took the Kurgan." He cleared his throat and went on. "We knew he had a tendency toward depression. But we never, never saw this coming." There was a short, difficult pause, and when Joe spoke again, it was more slowly.  "Well. The thing is, if you'd a-asked me, even last month, was there any way we could lose you that way, I'd have said never. Never." His voice dropped away into a whisper. "Please. Don't. I-I have nothing--"

MacLeod reached around Joe and tugged him to rest against his shoulder. Usually, when faced with the worst of grief, MacLeod ran, hid himself away.  He had not had the option after Tessa, not with Richie newly Immortal. But after Mai Ling and after Richie and after his wrath over Culloden, and after Hideo he had faced the worst of it by himself.

Now, though, he already felt too alone in the world. Always before, he had known his teacher was out there somewhere. He hadn't realized what a difference that had made until now, when Connor was gone. _Orphans,_ Amanda had said. MacLeod clung to Joe and tried not to think about how apt that description was. His life--his Immortal life--before Connor had been beyond terrible.

"You know," Joe said softly, "I remember, back when I was meeting you, I kept trying to prepare myself to be disappointed. I figured nobody could be as wonderful as I had thought you were. So I kept, I guess it was reminding myself that you were human, that  I knew you weren't perfect. But you know what? It never happened. I never had that moment of disillusionment. Never. Not then, and not in all the years since."

MacLeod hid his face. Hearing these things aloud seemed very strange. "It helped," he said. "I mean, I knew. And it helped. It helped to know that the man who knew me best in the world would sit in the same room with me, would call me  his friend. It helped. At night, sometimes, when I wasn't sure, I remembered that you could stand me, and it helped."

They were quiet for a long time, the words that had been so long apparent but unacknowledged between them hanging in the air. In the wake of them, the world didn't seem so large or so terrible, and MacLeod didn't feel so alone.

"Can you sleep like this?" he asked at last.  They were both fading; if any changes needed to be made, the time was now.

"I'm so tired right now, I could sleep through Italian opera."

"Italian Opera?" MacLeod freed himself long enough to crawl to the end of the bed and hit the light switch beside the door.

"Yeah. The German wasn't so bad, but I spent most of the late 80s trying to learn to sleep through the Italian."  In 1987, a small repertory company had tried to get started in Seacouver. MacLeod and Tessa had had season tickets until it closed three years later.

"Bet you were relieved when it failed."  They were on top of the blankets and getting under the covers seemed too big an undertaking, but the bedspread was folded across the foot of the bed, and in the warm house that would probably be enough.

"Buddy, you have no idea."

They settled on the pillows and, still holding each other loosely, fell asleep.

 ~TBC


	3. Snow: Day 3

He was in that derelict graveyard in Connecticut, dreading the moment when he found the new graves, and he would have to break open the caretaker's shed and find a shovel so he could unearth Connor's body.

From somewhere unseen, Connor's voice said, " _He'll kill you, just to torment m_ e."

He woke to full daylight and felt a tear slip loose as he opened his eyes. _Connor. Damn_. Waking and sleeping, he hated this pain.

Joe took a fold of the bedspread and mopped up the tear. "Just hang in there," he said softly.

MacLeod grimaced. "It'll pass." 

Joe kissed his forehead. "Clichéd, but true."

MacLeod thought about spending most of the morning wallowing in his murky grief. He decided to skip it. "Shall we head downstairs and see about breakfast--?"

"As long as I'm all the way up here, I'm getting a shower. I don't suppose you'd get my bag from the den?"

"No problem."

When he got downstairs, he didn't find Methos on either couch, even though he was sure there were three other Immortals in the house. The place just wasn't big enough to play hide and seek in. There was a basement apartment, but it didn't connect to the main floors, and the alarm was still set from the inside. Had Methos moved upstairs to the other tiny room?

MacLeod called a warning over the hiss of the water and stepped in long enough to set Joe's things on the shelf behind the commode. As he backed out of the bathroom, he nearly tripped over Amanda, on her way out of the big bedroom. She hushed MacLeod before he could speak. "Shh. The boys are sleeping."  She was wearing a white negligee that was transparent around the shoulders.  

"Who?" MacLeod asked, and then, "Where?"

Amanda nodded toward her door and shooed him toward the stairs. 

"You mean--both of them?"

"Hush. Yes."

"What--" he remembered to lower his voice. "What happened?"

Amanda shrugged. "Nick wanted to know what the big deal was with guys. So I asked--heh--Reggie to join us."

"Reggie?" MacLeod repeated, bemused. He wondered if he should ask how it went.  He was sure it was none if his business.

"Reggie Smith. The name Nick found when he looked up this house--which struck him as funny, since he'd already met our friend under 'Pierson.' You know how it is."

MacLeod found bacon and left-over polenta to fry while Amanda set about slicing fruit for breakfast. It felt domestic, almost normal, except nothing normal would cram Immortals so tightly together. If things were _normal_ they would all be in very nice hotel rooms.

Breakfast was only half finished when Nick came cheerfully thumping down the stairs and filched a piece of Amanda's pineapple. "Thanks," he said.

"Where's Adam?" she asked.

"With the Watcher. The old guy needed some help on the stairs."

Very carefully, MacLeod put down the spatula. He wasn't sure what part of that statement was more offensive, and he didn't want to under react.

Before he could speak, Amanda said sharply, "Nick. First of all, I owe "the Watcher" the lives of some of my best friends. Including mine, now that I think of it. Second, he's made it past fifty without dying even once. You made it, what? A little more than half that?" She patted his head. "I love you. Don't embarrass me by being an idiot."

"You think the whole stalking-thing is creepy, too."

"Completely irrelevant."  She silenced him by the expedient of popping a large slice of banana in his mouth. It was just in time, too. Methos and Joe arrived not half a minute later.

Joe was dressed, but Methos was wearing only sweat pants. MacLeod would have thought he'd be cold, showing so much bare skin, but he looked...very nice. Methos kissed Amanda and Nick on both cheeks--as though it had been weeks since he'd seen them last--and then captured MacLeod from behind and laid his cheek across his shoulder blade. "How are you doing, Mac?" he whispered.

MacLeod tried to smile. "Lucid, currently."

"Do we travel tonight? We are not in a hurry. You can have more time."

"No. Tonight is okay. Really."

Methos hugged him gently and went to check the coffee.

MacLeod concentrated on his frying, while around him there was puttering and laying out of plates. He found a platter and served up the food. With everyone crowded around the small table, breakfast continued to be a slightly surreal domestic event.

It was almost as if he had a family.

 _That_ thought made him tear up, and he jumped to his feet and went to the fridge to get more juice.  He managed to stay calm and present during breakfast. He didn't join in the conversation, but he did follow the content. There was a lot to do before their flight that evening. Everyone had laundry, some less than others, and Amanda needed to do some last-minute shopping. MacLeod's clothing was still waiting in a hotel room in Manhattan. All details and trivia that seemed very normal.

When breakfast was over, he headed back out to the tiny rear courtyard and started doing katas in the cold. He had to stay calm and pleasant, at least until they made it to Scotland. He had to find some balance and control. This trip would be bad enough for everyone without MacLeod having hysterics all the way across the Atlantic. He had to be steady. He had to be sure.

His breath frosted in the air and sunlight glittered on the snow-covered bench and potted trees. He flowed from one move to the next, willing his attention to stay on his solid flesh, reaching and pulling, pushing and holding....

It was hard to concentrate, though. Sadness warred with worry and a vague sense of longing. When his mind wandered, he saw images of Connor's eyes.

_My true brother--_

Again and again, he brought his mind back to the focus of the moment. Again and again he dragged himself back to center and started over. He moved on to harder and harder patterns, trying to crowd out the tangled misery that wouldn't leave with gentle coaxing.

By the time he succeeded, several hours had passed. The snow on the bench had melted and the icy paving stones had thin puddles here and there. It was still fairly cold, though. He felt...better. Clearheaded and calm, if not happy. At least he didn't feel as though he were about to weep. Deciding to take what he could get, he decided to go back into the house.  As soon as he opened the kitchen door, he could hear the quarrel going on at the other end of the hall.

"--That contrary to appearances, you are not actually stupid." That was Methos. Usually he didn't bother to be either that loud or that harsh. MacLeod wondered what Wolfe must have done to deserve such an enthusiastic chewing out.   "So let's try it again, yes? This time without the charming naivete?"

MacLeod winced in sympathy and decided to give the dressing down a pass. He'd just go shower. To his surprise, though, it wasn't Wolfe who answered, it was Joe. "Are you even listening to yourself? Just what do you think they are going to do?"

And yes, it really did seem that it was _Joe_ that Methos was lecturing with such venom, because the ancient responded, "Well, let me see. They've waited until _we_ are leaving town to call a very important meeting which _you_ absolutely must attend. What do I think they are going to do? I think they are going to kill you."

"You are being paranoid and irrational. They called the meeting for tonight because it _takes_ that long to get here from Asia.  Nothing suspicious is going on. I will take a later flight. I will join you in Europe tomorrow night."  Joe sounded both impatient and patronizing. MacLeod could have told him that that wouldn't work out well.

"Unbelievable!" Methos fairly spat. 

Sighing, MacLeod headed into the living room.

"Look," Nick said, and it seemed that he was trying to be the voice of reason, although what he said was hardly calming, "the Fairy Godfather here has a point. Whatever's going on, it's Watcher business. It doesn't have anything to do with us. We can't interfere. Dawson has to handle it."

The size of his mistake was apparent immediately. Methos stopped yelling. His quiet voice was colored not by anger, but by cool contempt. "You ignorant, short-sighted, arrogant children. How dare you--"

MacLeod sailed across the room and caught Methos gently by the shoulders. "Hush," he murmured. "Stop now. Stop now. We will take care of this, I promise. I promise, Methos."

Methos deflated and allowed himself to be guided down to sit on the edge of a chair. "They're going to kill him. Damn him. He is going to hand them his life. Just like last time."

MacLeod kept one arm around Methos's shoulders and with his free hand petted his hair. "Hush. We will think of something. I promise."

"Mac--" Joe began.

MacLeod silenced him with a look before he could set Methos off again. "Tell me what has happened."

Joe shifted uncomfortably. "There is a General Council tonight. To discuss sanctuary policy and the restructuring of North America. I do have to be there."

"They are keeping him here while we leave for Europe. He will simply disappear. We will never see him again." Methos said through his teeth.

"How sure are you?" Amanda said from her seat on the ottoman beside the bookcase. "Completely sure or just mostly sure? Is there any chance this is on the up and up?"

Duncan thought about the kind of instincts you developed after being alive for five thousand years and decided that it was exactly the right question.

After a moment, Methos said reluctantly, "Mostly sure. Ninety percent? But even five percent is too much!"

"Of course it is," Duncan said, still petting. "What shall we do?"

"Mac," Joe protested.

"We cannot run," Methos said softly. "They know where we will go next. Where we have to go next. And it is very hard to hide in the world anymore, even if we didn't have to see to Connor."

"We're not going to hide." MacLeod frowned. "It's because they're afraid of me, isn't it? Or--is it because you've caught them breaking their own rules _again_ , Joe? Is it because they're afraid you can make them behave?"

"They're not going to kill me. Most of the regions are overwhelmingly loyal to the rules and values of the organization. We've _detained_ the bad apples that were causing problems in America. This is just a meeting. An important meeting. That's all."

"Joe...Doesn't it occur to you that if the situation is unstable enough that _Adam_ thinks something like this is possible, something _has_ to be done? Whether you are in immediate danger or not?"

Joe paled. "No," he said. "Please. Don't interfere. Sanctuary was unconscionable, but if you start a war, thousands of people will die. Your people and my people. I can handle this--"

"Amazing," Methos whispered. "And he sounds lucid."

"Hush," MacLeod said, pulling him closer. "So far, all of the non-interference seems to be running one-way. As tactics go, us staying out of Watcher politics doesn't seem to be working. I’m sorry, Joe, but this is the third time."

"We sanctioned twenty three people after Horton! We fired almost a dozen people after Shapiro! I did a lot of the cleaning up both times, and I will clean up this time, too--"

"What are they talking about?" Nick asked. "I'm pretty sure I haven't heard all of this story."

Amanda shushed him and said, "Are things getting out of hand? This sort of behavior can't have been going on all along. Even if we'd managed not to notice....there would have been a schism. This can't be normal."

"No, this is...new. People are afraid," Joe said. "Some of it is built-up millennial anxiety. And some of it is worry about the gathering...the violence has escalated over the last decade or so and it's so easy to travel now. They think it might be possible for every Immortal everywhere to battle it out and...rule the world. Or whatever. We don't know. And that's scary as hell."

Methos sighed. "Communication got too easy. Watchers didn't used to talk to each other so much. Not over such distances in such detail. It's very easy, now, if you are a paranoid crazy, to find other like-minded paranoid crazies and make plans with them. Whatever else, I promise you the opposition is well organized."

MacLeod nodded at Amanda, "What they're saying is, it wasn't normal before, but now it is. The conditions that breed the problem aren't going to go away. Ignoring the problem isn't going to help. And neither is the threat of internal...sanctions. Something has to change."

"No," Joe whispered. "Please."

"All right," Nick said. "Somebody tell me what the hell is going on."

Amanda patted his head. "We'll talk about it later." She crossed the small room to sit on the arm of Joe's chair. "It's all right," she said softly. "Nobody is talking about violence. Nobody is going to die." She smiled brightly. "Everybody has the same goals, here right? We want to keep immortality a secret. We want to stop Watcher splinter groups from hunting us down and slaughtering us. We want everybody quietly minding their own business. Or someone else's business, as the case may be, but only for professional reasons. Right? Have I left anything out? No? Then we just need a plan."

"Someone needs to go to this meeting," MacLeod said.

Joe shuddered. "Oh, God."

"Joe, this isn't personal--"

"The hell it's not," Methos muttered.

"If you want to go off and do dangerous things, that's your business."

"No. It's not. Don't lie to him, MacLeod."

"Hush. You aren't helping," MacLeod said, "Joe, even if it weren't you involved...something would have to be done. Now please help us come up with something that won't make things worse."

Joe stared resolutely out the window.

Nick said, "So I take it this is serious?"

Amanda said, "Well, we can't send you, Duncan. Not if this isn't personal. It will have to be Adam or me."

"Not me," Methos snorted. "Not if we're saying it's not personal. I'm _not_ popular."

"Me then. I'll go to the meeting and tell them...what?"

MacLeod looked at Joe. The Watcher refused to look back. His hands were gripping his cane so tightly that his knuckles were white. MacLeod wished he didn't have to do this, but he had had a vision, once, of what the Watchers might become if they lost their way. "You'll explain that if they don't keep their house clean, the next time there will be consequences."

"That's it?" Amanda asked.

"MacLeod, how many people could you get to come here, to New York, if you asked? How many of us, I mean?" Methos asked.

"By tonight? I can only think of three or four who could make it that fast."

"They don't have to be here by tonight," Methos said. "They only have to head in this direction. Their Watchers will know if they suddenly buy plane tickets."

MacLeod could see where this was going. "I'm not telling everyone I know about the Watchers."

"I'm not suggesting we tell anyone anything. Well, not everyone. And not everything! But it will make the point that we could. It would back up Amanda's message very nicely." Slowly he pushed himself out of the circle of MacLeod's arm. "Joe, where is the meeting being held?"

Joe looked miserably at the floor.

"The Chapter House in Queens? The depository in Ridgefield?"

Joe whispered, "The Chapter House is being renovated. We took a conference room at The Plaza."

"That works out nicely," MacLeod said. "We can have our people gather in the park. A nice, public place."

Methos and Wolfe had working cell phones. Amanda borrowed her partner's and MacLeod used the land line. It didn't take very long to call all the friends whose numbers he had memorized, but after a few minutes, Methos produced a sheet of paper with a dozen more listed. MacLeod didn't ask him if he'd hacked the Watcher database.

He asked everyone he could reach (and left messages for those he couldn't) to come to New York and meet him at the south end of Central Park at six o'clock that evening. For those too far away to make it in time, making plans and beginning the journey would be enough. He didn't explain why. He hadn't decided what to explain, or to whom. He did warn them that there would be a number of Immortals in the park, and that they were friends. He wasn't worried. At that time of night, Central Park was too public and too crowded for anyone to risk a challenge.

Amanda finished her calls first. She hurried out to do her errands, claiming MacLeod's room key on the way so she could pick up his things at the hotel. Because no one was going anywhere alone, she took Nick with her.

When Duncan finished his calls, he went upstairs to take the shower he'd been planning when he'd come in after the work out. As he reached for the soap, a small spark of his vanity emerged and hoped that he hadn't smelled too awful while he'd been cosseting Methos. The pettiness of it made him smile.

When he finished, Methos was on the bed in the tiny guest room with his laptop open on his knees.  He waved as MacLeod passed the door, but didn't look up.  Amanda and Nick weren't back yet--they would be gone two or three hours at least--and Joe was in the kitchen folding laundry. MacLeod was struck again by the shocking domesticity of it all.

Joe held out a pair of clean underwear. "Not much of this is yours. When we sorted the laundry this morning, this was all we could salvage, unless those are your socks."

Right. Made sense. Both shirt and pants had been torn and bloody....

"Joe, I'm sorry," he said. "This isn't--it isn't just about you."

He sighed. "Yeah. I know. You're tired of having friends slaughtered by renegade Watchers. I get it. You've been amazingly patient so far, really."    

"It's not your fault, you know," MacLeod whispered. "If not for you, the war would have been over years ago, and both sides would have lost."

Joe shrugged, folded a pair of jeans, put them on a pile of other jeans.

"Will you forgive me?" MacLeod asked.

"I'm not angry. I'm just scared." He was down to the bottom of the basket. Joe rolled the last pair of socks and then, when he had set them down, found he had nothing to do and nothing to look at.  He chewed his lower lip and looked out the back window. "It's not that bad. I'll talk to Amanda. We'll sort this all out somehow." Joe turned to face him. "We missed lunch. Hungry?"

"No."

"No, neither am I." He picked up one of the piles laundry and started to leave.

"Connor knew I loved him. It didn't help."

Joe froze, did not turn around.

"So this isn't good-bye. I’m not telling you this in case it's the last chance we have. I'm telling you this so that you'll understand why this _can't_ be good-bye. There has to be more." He closed the distance between them, whispering in Joe's ear from behind, but not quite touching. "I love you. I missed you. I missed your company. I missed your humor. I missed your voice. I missed your knowing me--yes, the thing I used to resent the most. I missed your knowing me. I used to hate it when you'd visit. The temptation of hearing you, seeing you, I thought it was a dangerous and terrible thing. I was afraid...."

"I knew," Joe breathed. "I knew."

"I missed you. And I'm telling you--because whatever happens tonight, Joe, you damn well better make sure you come back."

Slowly, Joe turned around and set the laundry on the table. Then, very lightly, he ran his fingers along MacLeod's jaw. "Okay," he said, "Fair's fair. You should know I'm not about to seduce you because I think this is good-bye. It's not. I've just been waiting so damn long, and I can't wait any more." The gentle hand shifted to MacLeod's shoulder, and Joe leaned in and kissed him.

So they did, after all, wind up doing it on the table. On the clean laundry, as it turned out, about half of which had to be re-folded later.

Unlike most of the virgins MacLeod had had the responsibility of teaching, Joe was fearless and eager. Rather than being shy and nervous, he was curious and hungry. With his strong, agile hands and his gentle, careful mouth, he searched and caressed, making soft sighs of appreciation and watching MacLeod's face to see what pleased him most. They were both shirtless very quickly.

MacLeod tried to remember his first time with a man--the shoulders broader, the breasts so much smaller, not having to lean down. Different. Novel. Dangerous. But while he knew it intellectually, he could not fetch the memory back. Joe was nibbling on his left ear, and oh, that tongue was hot and clever. He could not remember his own virgin moments, not while sliding his hands over Joe's sleek, hard shoulders, not while he burned and grew swollen with the urgent need he felt right now.

"Mac, I want to touch you. I want to taste you. Please."

MacLeod, running the tips of his fingers over the beard he'd waited _so long_ to touch. "Anything."

For the first time, uncertainty showed. "How--how do we do this?"

It was hard to think. To cover, MacLeod kissed him, which made thinking worse, of course, but eventually an answer surfaced. "You're going to sit in the chair, and I'm going to sit on the table, hmmm?"

"Right. Good." Joe was already reaching for the drawstring on MacLeod's borrowed sweats. As soon as he was freed of the light confinement, he found himself being edged backward and guided into position. "You all right, my friend?"

"Yes, Joe. I'm fine."

Joe was careful and not in a hurry. It was...delightful. And maddening. MacLeod was dimly aware that, yes, he was sitting at the edge of the table leaning back on his hands, what little coherence he had focused on not falling over or falling off. Very quickly he was beside himself with indescribable need, and--oh, god--yes, it was flattering that Joe was clearly enjoying himself so much, but--oh, _god_ \--if this didn't end soon, he was going to explode.

The need was like hunger, like thirst, like dying alone. MacLeod heard himself whimper, and then, at last, satisfaction crashed on him like the first strike of a quickening, like music, like water in the desert. His arms gave way and he landed in the laundry. 

He stared up at the kitchen ceiling as hot little sparks passed through him and died away.  With the waves of following peace came a single wave of relief. Usually, first times--even, sometimes, with experienced partners--were fumbling and awkward and not terribly spectacular. "Sweet" usually had to take the place of "earth shattering." Not this time.

The kitchen ceiling was a pale green. There were bugs in the light fixture.

"You still all right?" Joe asked gently.

"Ha. Nobody's that immortal." MacLeod fought the lassitude enough to lift his head and look at his companion. Joe met his gaze fearlessly, his face shining with trust and affection. An odd thought surfaced. "You know, until this week, I'd been celibate for four years." And then, "You knew that right? You...you were still keeping an eye on things...weren't you?"

"Every Friday morning I got a report. It just said, 'still here,' but, hey."

Carefully, he sat up. "I'm glad." He hopped off the table, which creaked ominously, and scooted Joe's chair back enough so that he could squat in front of it. "How are you doing?"

Joe laughed. "I feel...really good."

"We're not finished yet."  Apparently, 'really good' was code for 'almost ready.' Joe was trapped so tightly in his pants that it looked almost painful. Slowly, MacLeod freed him.

"Oh. Damn. I."

"Breathe. Slow down. We have time."

Joe bucked a little. "I might not."

MacLeod kissed him. Firmly. Distractingly.  "Breathe. We're not there yet."

Panting, Joe took a desperate grip on his shoulders. He was past talking, past following instructions.  There was silence between them now, silence and the light sweat that covered them both. Joe shuddered and shuddered and then clung as he came.

They were still for a long time--until they began to grow cold--and then MacLeod stood slowly and sacrificed one of the newly folded towels to the clean-up. Someone had anointed the floor, and one of the neat little balls of socks was now damp. Joe retrieved their shirts and then began to re-tidy the clean laundry.

The rest of the day passed very quickly. They finished the laundry and the packing, ate or tossed the food that would go bad in the fridge, took out the trash.  Amanda and Nick, laden with packages and baggage and dripping slush and road salt from their boots, got back, and then half an hour later it was time to head into Manhattan.

Amanda, Joe, and Nick took the car Amanda had rented at the airport. They would hand it over to valet parking at the Plaza. Methos drove in by another route. He would park on the west side of Central Park, along Fifth Avenue, and he and MacLeod would walk from there. Really, there wasn't much to the plan. Waiting around in the park hardly sounded like a plan at all, even. Simple. Straightforward. Foolproof.

"Stop fussing," Methos said as they got out of the car. "They will be fine; they are none of them kittens. Even Nick can take care of himself. 

"Have you made contact with him yet?"

Methos sighed and adjusted the tiny receiver in his ear. "Yes. He is checking in right now. He is in position in the lobby. Joe and Amanda are on the way to the elevator." He produced a small phone from the pocket of his coat and handed it to MacLeod. "I am going to go watch from across the street. Take this; you need to stay in the park and make sure none of our allies get greedy and start hacking away at each other." Methos patted his shoulder and strode away.

 

MacLeod looked around. It was not even five and already dark, even though the half-melted and trampled snow reflected back what ambient light there was. The days were about as short as they would get. He pictured a calendar, did some math.  He wasn't sure, but he thought tomorrow or the day after might be his birthday. How bleak. He hoped everyone would forget, but he knew the odds on that weren't great.

A couple passed him. They were in a hurry and griping to each other because the temperature was dropping again and they weren't dressed for the cold.

Another quickening brushed against his. Slowly, MacLeod turned in a circle and called, "I am Duncan MacLeod. I have no quarrel with anyone tonight."

There was an answering squeal, and he turned to greet the small silhouette that raced up the path toward him. "Michelle?" he asked, astonished. "What are you doing here?"

She hugged him, and he was relieved to find that the hug was more exuberance than grope. "You called me, silly."

"Yes, but--you live in western Canada. You couldn't have gotten here--"

" _Yes, but_ I was in Chicago, waiting for my connecting flight to Scotland when I picked up your message." She tucked her arm through his and leaned companionably against his shoulder.

Scotland, he thought, bemused. But Amanda had said something to that affect, hadn't she? That MacLeod would have an army with him. "You were coming to the funeral," he said.

"Yes, Duncan. Amanda called me. I'm...I'm sorry about your teacher."

"Thank you," he said, because he had to. "So. How are you doing?"

"I'm gainfully employed, can you believe it?" she bubbled. "I'm a stuntwoman for some little television studio in Vancouver. It's a real hoot. I work regular hours. I'm dating this really conventional guy. Well, I was. We broke up day before yesterday. I just bought a little house."

"A stuntwoman? Why?"

"Hmmm. Because I like being alive, and I'm getting a really good education. Also because I'm great at it. Well, I seem to be great at it. Actually, for a while there I was breaking an arm or finger at least once a month, but it doesn't show, so everybody thinks I'm fantastic."

"In Canada?"

"Yeah. It's this over the top scifi series. Hey, maybe you've seen me! It's--"

"I've been in a monastery for the last four years."

"Oh. Right. I guess not, then." She looked him up and down. "So you're a monk now."

"No!" There was an awkward silence. He decided to change the subject. "Amanda said the college she sent you to had...excellent extra-curricular activities?"

She laughed. "Oh. Yeah. I competed swimming, fencing, and karate every year and I signed up for yoga and tai-chi every term. My GPA wasn't particularly memorable, but I learned the important things."

"Let's have a look."

"What, here?:

MacLeod took off his coat and laid it across a nearby bench. "Nothing wrong with here," he said.

Michelle laid her coat on top of his and they stepped off the path to stand in the crusty re-frozen snow. When Michelle just stood there nervously, MacLeod made a deliberately ham-handed grab for her arm. She slid smoothly under his hand and landed a light punch on his kidneys that would have hurt a lot if she'd had any force behind it.

Once she got started, Michelle wasn't too bad. She was fast and sure-footed.  Her timing was good. She didn't fall for his obvious feints. Her worst weakness was that MacLeod could clearly see what she was thinking by the way she held her shoulders and hips, but that was a problem which could only be overcome with time--decades of time-- and, to be fair, MacLeod himself had much more experience and much better training than most of the immortals Michelle was likely to encounter.

He rushed her. She tossed him. He gave her an opening, and she took it, exposing herself, and he dumped her on her butt hard enough to hurt. Panting, she picked herself up and dusted off clinging grains of ice.  "You're really good at this," she said.

"You didn't know?"

"Well...I was paying attention to other things at the time."

"When you're done with the stunt-woman gig, find me. I'll teach you the advanced stuff."

"Really?" She straitened and stepped back. "Duncan--I'm--I'm so sorry about before. I know I was a real bitch--"

He smiled. "Michelle. You weren't a bitch. You were just an idiot."

"Right. Well. I'd like to thank you for not letting that get me killed. And for not....you know."

"You're welcome."  Without the movement to warm them, the sweat was already chilling against their skin. MacLeod retrieved their coats. "I hear you're in the game." He didn't really want to bring that up, but the sort of friends a young Immortal could talk about that with were few and far between.

"Just twice," she said, buttoning her coat.

"How do you like it?" he pressed gently.

 "Well, the quickening, I could do without. But I like winning." She glanced at him and winced. "Sorry." An awkwardness rose between them. Michelle would not meet his eyes.

"What did Amanda tell you?"

"That your teacher died and you...got...the...you know."

Which pretty much summed it up. "Yeah," he said.

"Are you okay?"

"I will be."

A new quickening brushed against them, and Michelle reached for her coat. MacLeod caught her arm. "Not here," he said. "Who is it?"

"MacLeod, is that you?"

The voice came from behind them, and as MacLeod turned to face it, he realized that it was familiar. "Gregor!" His smile froze half-formed. The last time they had met was in France, about four days after the death of Sean Burns. At the time, Gregor had been one of Sean's patients. MacLeod had called him that afternoon, but the phone had been answered by a machine. "Gregor?"

Gregor stepped out of the shadows. "Duncan," he said, and held out his hands.

"It's good to see you," MacLeod said, and hugged him. His former student. His former lover. Still his friend, amazingly, even after all they'd been through.

"I wish the circumstances were better. I’m sorry about Connor."

"Thank you." He took a deep breath and stepped back, keeping himself between Gregor and Michelle. "I'd like you to meet a friend of mine. Gregor, Michelle. Michelle, Gregor."

Gregor nodded affably and held out his hand. "Greg," he said.

"It's nice to meet you."

Wrapping an arm around each of them, MacLeod led them to the bench and they sat down. "So what are you up to these days? Last I heard, you were looking at medical school?"

"I'm not finished yet." 

MacLeod did some fast math in his head. "Not yet?"

"I've got the MD, but I'm a graduate student in psychology and neurology. Not that far from here, actually. Boston."

"I had no idea."

Gregor smiled.  "We're doing amazing research on the brain."

MacLeod's heart sank. It could not possibly be good for Gregor to spend a lot of time in dissections. He needed human interaction. "I see."

Gregor didn't notice his lack of enthusiasm. "The technology is incredible. We put our subjects into a magnetic resonance imager and have them do math and word problems. We can actually see what part of the brain they use."

"Oh! So--you do research on live subjects."

Gregor laughed. "Well, obviously, but we pay them. We have a very good grant. And it's not dangerous--Come on, Duncan, did you think I was vivisecting or something? The hard part is analyzing the pictures afterward, but it turns out I'm good at that.  The only thorn in my garden at the moment is my dissertation advisor, but if I move to someone else I'll be taken off the project. So." He shrugged.  "It's only another six months."  He sobered suddenly. "You look like hell, man. What can I do?"

And this more than anything else showed how much closer Gregor was to being himself again. For a long time he hadn't noticed when other people were hurting, and he hadn't cared.

Before MacLeod had to answer the question, the phone Methos had given him rang. "MacLeod," he said.

"It's me." Amanda. "They'd like to talk to you."

"Oh. What do you think?"

"I think we've had a lovely talk." Which was Amanda's way of saying things looked good but she wasn't making any promises.

"What does Joe say?"

There was a short pause, then, "Joe says, come on."

"All right." He shut off the phone and turned to his friends. "I have to go."

Gregor laid a hand on his arm. "Duncan, what's going on?"

Even if it was safe to tell Gregor about the Watchers--and it might be--and even if it was safe to tell him now, here, in New York--and, again, it might be--he did not have time. "Come to Scotland. I'll tell you both." He took a deep breath. "In the mean time, you must _not_ challenge anybody. Not tonight. Not for any reason."

Gregor laughed, "With half a dozen strangers wandering around waiting for the head of the loser? Never."

"They're friends. I'll talk to you soon." And he hugged them both and hurried across the park.

Methos met him as he crossed the sidewalk. "Amanda called me," he said shortly.

"Do you think I shouldn't?"

"At this point, I think you must." But he slipped something heavy into MacLeod's coat pocket.

"I won't need that."

"I certainly hope not. Good luck."

Wolfe was sitting in the lobby, pretending to read a newspaper. He nodded affably as MacLeod strode past to the elevators. He looked around casually, trying not to appear nervous. Businessmen. Tourists. A wedding party checking in. He'd gotten quite good at spotting Watchers over the years, but he was out of practice.  Anyone, anywhere....

Upstairs, the wide hallway was nearly empty. He didn't hurry.  The door he was looking for turned out to be open. Waiting for him. When MacLeod stepped in, a young man in a suit closed it discreetly behind him and took a chair in the corner.

The conference room was large and lavishly decorated; flowers on the carpet, gilt wallpaper on the walls. The single table was huge and mahogany and U-shaped, and about two dozen men and women were seated around the outer edge of it. Amanda was at the arch of the U, seated carelessly on the table itself. In her high heels and short skirt she couldn’t possibly be dangerous, but the very casualness in this context made her almost frightening. Joe was seated near the end of the table on MacLeod's right. He was watching his colleagues, not the Immortals, and Macleod couldn't catch his eye.

There was a short, tense silence.

A man--in his mid-thirties, much younger than most of the people present--sitting to Amanda's left stood up and said, "Mr. MacLeod, thank you for coming. My name is Miles Bancroft. I’m the Deputy Coordinator for Western Europe. I'd like to begin by extending, on behalf of all of us, our deepest regrets on your recent loss. And also--our sincerest apologies for the role our negligence played in recent events."

MacLeod barely heard what he was saying. He searched the young face, trying to find some trace of familiarity. He found none. He had only met Ian Bancroft the once, and besides being distracted he had given the unknown Watcher no special thought. He hadn't realized that he'd been assigned to Darius or Mai Ling. He hadn't known then what a friend he'd been to Joe or how much flack he'd caught for recruiting Joe to the Watchers. "Bancroft?" he asked.

The Watcher blushed a little. "My uncle, Sir. I--I believe you may have met--?"

MacLeod could only nod.

Miles Bancroft continued, "If I may say, speaking personally...Connor MacLeod was a legend among us, and we owed him a great debt. His loss diminishes us all."

MacLeod swallowed hard and managed to murmur, "Thank you."

The woman sitting next to Bancroft stood up. She appeared to be quite old, perhaps nearly seventy. She introduced herself crisply in Spanish as the Coordinator for Central America and repeated the formal apology. They went down one side of the table, one after the other, giving MacLeod their names and their regrets. He did not try to remember one from another, there were too many and they went by too quickly.

And then a woman stood up whose face he recognized. Thought he recognized? He couldn't place where, but he _knew_ her. "I'm--I'm sorry. Can you repeat your name?"

"Barbara Davies. But you knew me as Barbara Waverly. My husband tried to blackmail you into killing me. He had a video of a challenge."

MacLeod realized he was holding his breath. "Yes. It's. Good to see you." Normally, this was not a polite thing to say to a Watcher, but she just nodded kindly and said, "I'm Acting Coordinator for the American Northwest. I Watch Terence Coventry."

Dimly, MacLeod recalled that Joe had said he had people. He had not given much thought to thought to how highly placed they might be. The introductions continued. Some of the Watchers who stood up would not meet MacLeod's eyes, but most of them did. Looking at the faces lined up before him, MacLeod found another he knew.  "Reverend Bell," he said. "Are you still ....?" His mouth was nearly too dry to speak. He had not expected to come into this room and find _friends_.

"Coordinator, West Indies and Mid-Atlantic. Duncan, I regret that we're meeting again under these circumstances. Our role in this tragedy was inexcusable. I'm very sorry."

MacLeod swallowed hard. "Thank you, Reverend."

"I've been asked to give you a message. Carl says he's sorry he wasn't able to come here himself, but you've been in his prayers."

"Thank you, Reverend." This time the words were so quiet that Duncan himself could barely hear them.

After that the introductions barely registered at all. MacLeod forced himself to look at their faces, to acknowledge them with a nod. They were giving him their names. Even at Joe's tribunal, no one had been introduced, not even to the defendant, and it was possible that was just because Joe knew them all, but it was more likely that they wouldn't speak freely with an Immortal in the room.

He glanced at Amanda. She was still sitting languidly on the table, to all appearances a little bored. He glanced at Joe. His hands were still, folded calmly on the table before him.

When the introductions finished, an Asian man with graying hair who sat towards the center of the table stood up again and said formally, in French, "Monsieur MacLeod, we have been remiss. We failed to adequately account for the changing times in our training and our policies. We have kept the records of your people from the beginning of history. In the first cities, there we were also. But the world has changed. A thousand years ago--and two thousand and more--all the world knew was division and war. Predation and invasion were constant. In those days, the idea of a single ruler was a source of hope. No single ruler, however cruel and despotic, could be worse then the endless parade of wars as different princes fought for the same scraps of ground. In those days, Watchers must have found the idea of the Gathering a welcome promise.

"But the world has changed. Too many people have gotten used to democracies. Everybody is an individualist. The idea of a single ruler, no matter how benevolent or wise, is horrifying. We had not given thought to how our people would react."

Duncan shrugged. "What difference does that make? You can't turn back time.  The problem isn't going to go away."

It was Miles Bancroft who answered him. "We can't make our people look forward to the Gathering, but we can show them that it won't happen."

Involuntarily, MacLeod took a step backwards. "What are you talking about?"

The Asian said, "We kept Sanctuary a secret. No one below the rank of Regional Coordinator or Research Supervisor knew about it. We thought to protect Sanctuary with secrecy. We can do better by decentralizing it and increasing security. With this evidence in mind that the Gathering cannot ever come about, junior operatives won't have years of fear to breed hate."

"This is your answer?" MacLeod demanded. "Openly interfering? You can't cast aside your most sacred rules and then expect your field agents to keep on following the little ones, like--like telling the truth and not interfering in combat! It won't work."

"This isn't interference," Spanish, this time. It was more than a little disorienting. He wondered how they got any work done.

"And just how do you figure that?" He tripped, realizing that he had just yelled at an old woman. "Excuse me, Señora, but really--"

"We change nothing. The Gathering will not come soon, no matter what _we_ do.  Right now there are seventy-three Immortals in prisons or asylums who are so firmly sentenced that they will not get out until they can manage to die.  That we know of.  And there is more. There are others removed from the Game in ways we can not control. Aganesthes is buried--intact--in a cave in--it's India now. There was a landslide in the fifteenth century.  Even we are not sure of how to reach the entrance. The Immortals who find their way to Sanctuary...would find a way to escape the Game one way or another, often in ways that would result in the Quickenings being lost. We have not changed the outcome."

"It's also occurred to some of us," Bancroft added, "that once humans aren't confined to this single planet, the threat of someone 'ruling the world' isn't so terrifying."

"So--you're what? Going to build a rocket?" Whatever he had expected, it wasn't this.

"It probably won't be necessary to bankroll a space program ourselves, but we have extensive resources. The subject is under study."

Behind him on the right, Dawson said softly, "Sometimes it's not enough to sit and watch."

His own words, thrown back at him. MacLeod closed his eyes. "No more kidnappings," he said.

"Never again!" Bancroft said firmly.

"And if you have anyone else held against their will--"

"No one," Joe said. "Everyone here has sworn to it."

Reverend Bell stood up. "What else, Duncan? What else must we do for there to be peace between us?"

Duncan found himself nodding, his mouth dry, his heart strangely cold. "Nothing. Nothing. You want peace? You have it. I leave it to you to keep it." He turned and left. Just barely, he managed to sail out with dignity rather than run. Just barely.

In the hall, out of sight, he leaned for a brief moment against the wall. He had not truly realized, until that last moment, that he had gone into that room preparing himself to kill. Or possibly to die. He had not admitted how afraid he had been. And-- _oh_ \--he had not been ready for what they had done. Dear god. The Watchers were trying to change...everything.

 _Change is unavoidable. It is the one constant._ And Methos was right about that, MacLeod knew, but--

_This will change everything, everything. Carl already knows.  In a few days I'm going to tell Gregor and Michelle._

There would be no end to the Gathering. No Prize. In its way, not even a surprise. But-- _Mai Ling died for nothing. Graham died for nothing. Ramirez died for nothing. Richie--_

_Oh, what would Richie have given to escape the Game?_

He heard a step behind him and looked back. Amanda and then Joe. "Right," he said. "Let's get the hell out of here."

They weren't alone in the elevator. The elderly couple they shared with seemed harmless enough, but MacLeod crowded Joe into the corner and planted himself in front of him just in case. Something was knotted so tightly in his chest that it hurt to breathe, but MacLeod forced himself to look around alertly as they stepped into the lobby. It wasn't over yet.

He spotted Methos, Wolfe, and another man talking by the doors. At once, Wolfe went outside and Methos and the third man came to meet them. Methos greeted Amanda with a hug, looking past her head to check out the hallway behind them. "How did it go?" he murmured.

"You should have seen their faces when I walked in," she said, "I scared the poop out of them--and they knew I was coming."

"I'm not asking if you frightened them. I'm asking what they did."

"We're fine," MacLeod said shortly. "I don't think they'll be a problem. Where's Wolfe?"

"Retrieving the car. Ah. And I ran into another friend of yours in the park."

For the first time, MacLeod got a good look at the man with Methos. "Derek?" he asked, astonished. But of course he hadn't changed at all. There could be no question that it was him.

Derek held out his hand. "I'm sorry I’m late, Mr. MacLeod."

"Derek. It's good to see you. But how did you--your roommate said you'd already left for winter break--"

"The reverend told me what happened. I came up to see if you needed any help. I'd already left."

"Can we finish this later?" Methos prodded. "Somewhere other than here?" He nudged them toward the door.

Out front, Wolfe had just finished sweeping Amanda's car for bugs. "All clear," he called. 

Methos tipped the parking valet and hustled Amanda and Joe toward the car. "Not you, MacLeod." He pointed to a car just behind. The engine was running and Gregor was behind the wheel. "Call me paranoid, but I am not putting you and Joe in the same car."

"But--"

"I will look after them. Go on."

Gregor and Michelle were in the front seat. MacLeod and Derek got in the back. "Do we know where we're going?"

"Airport," Gregor said, and stepped on the gas. He still drove like a madman.

***

The next hour and a half was like a detour to hell. They had to return the cars--naturally not to the same rental companies. Ticketing, IDing, and selecting seating for eight people--all of whom had weapons in their checked baggage, including seven heirloom swords--was simply tedious, and afterwards they had to pass through security. Even at ten o'clock at night the line was thirty minutes long. Joe, whose serene demeanor had not cracked all evening, began to look tense and wilted. Amanda was resolutely cheerful in a way that suggested that she would be complaining if the situation wasn't so serious. Gregor and Derek were trying to impress Michelle. Derek and Michelle were nearly the same age and of the same nationality. They had the same popular cultural references. In addition, Derek was only recently returned from the Caribbean, which appeared to be 'very cool.' On the other hand, Gregor had had over two hundred and fifty years to practice being charming.  So far it was a tie.

After security, was a hundred feet of remodeling, and a long trek down a narrowed and dim temporary corridor.

"Finally!" Amanda said, when they gathered again on the other side. "I'm starving. Something has to still be open."

Derek spotted a McDonald's, but Methos captured him before could hare off. "Oh, no. First we find our gate and settle our carry-ons. Then we can--quickly--gather provisions. We have only forty-five minutes to boarding, we're running behind."

Joe, with MacLeod at the rear of the pack, snickered very quietly, "Now we see the truth. You and I may be boy scouts, but the old man is a den mother."

MacLeod smiled thinly. "The surprise is he's so good at it."

The waiting area at their gate was already more than half full. The party claimed a corner of it with a large heap of carry-ons and trench coats with empty scabbards. Methos pointed at Joe and MacLeod. "You and you stay here and watch the baggage, I'll scare up some dinner. Any preferences?"

Joe sighed and sat carefully in one of the chairs. "Anything, I guess. A hamburger would be great."

"Thanks," MacLeod said. "I'm not hungry."

"Right then. Stay here."

Across the way a flight arrived and a steady stream of passengers disgorged. Down the concourse Michelle was teasing Derek and Gregor by pretending to consider a foodfight with her French fries. MacLeod counted the baggage; he might need an inventory later.

"So?" Joe asked. "How pissed are you?"

"Why would I be angry?" But that wasn't an answer. "Tell me something--all these years, you didn't believe in the Game?"

"The Game? Sure." Joe sighed. "That was obviously...real. The _Prize_? If it really was a matter of fate, than my opinion didn't matter. And if it wasn't, my opinion still didn't matter."

"Connor believed." Connor had believed that only one of them could have survived in the end.

"I'm sorry, Duncan."

"He wouldn't have listened. So many had already died...."

"Kell didn’t care about the Game," Joe pointed out.

"No. I suppose it wouldn't matter." It felt like it mattered. Connor had spent his life weeding the worst sadists and butchers out of the Game. It had been his calling, his life's work.

Methos returned with a white paper bag that didn't smell too bad.  He squatted in front of them and handed out wrapped packets. "All quiet here?" 

"Yes," MacLeod said. "Gad, you're a worrywart."

"You have no idea," Joe said, and held up what seemed to be a roast chicken sandwich on a whole wheat roll.

"That's not a hamburger," MacLeod observed, unwrapping his own meal, which he hadn't wanted anyway. "I've got roast beef? Care to trade?"

Methos paused mid-bite of his own sandwich, "No, he doesn't."

"He's decided I'm old and decrepit--"

"I have not!"

"--and he's turned into a food fascist. Surely you noticed there was nothing to drink at the house except red wine?"

"I like red wine," Methos protested innocently. "Anyway, there was orange juice. And milk."

"It was skim milk."

MacLeod thought about it. "I remember bacon," he said tentatively, trying to remember if that was on the latest dietary hysteria list.

"And who do you think bought that?" Joe said sourly, picking the lettuce off the sandwich.

"You sound like it was some kind of plot!" Methos protested indignantly.  "The whole world does not revolve around you." That last wasn't even close to convincing, though. He looked away.

MacLeod decided to eat his sandwich.

"All right," Joe said. "I apologize for giving you shit this morning."

Methos shifted so that he was sitting cross-legged on the floor and set his sandwich on his lap. "Really," he said, eyeing Joe suspiciously.

"Yes. Really. If you guys hadn't drawn a line in the sand, things might have...gone differently tonight."

"And the reason you were so firmly...unreasonable this morning?"

"I was scared," Joe muttered. "There are almost twenty thousand of us, all right? And we know where you live. I was afraid of what would happen if you got involved."

"Ah."  In the face of this abject apology, Methos seemed unimpressed. MacLeod could have told Joe that apologizing was not the best way to go.

"The plan was just right. Amanda was brilliant."

"Thank you. I'm so glad you approve."

Joe leaned forward and hissed, "What the hell do you want from me--"

A shadow fell across them. MacLeod looked up, and nearly choked on his sandwich. "Cory!"

"Hi, Mac.  Sorry I'm late. Amanda around?"

Cory Raines. Or whatever he called himself this week. _Great_. "Uh, yeah. Somewhere. Um. I guess she called you."

"Yeah. So? You guys watching the luggage?"

MacLeod sighed. "Yeah."

"Great." He added a carry-on to the heap. "See you in a bit."

Cory was not on the list of people MacLeod wanted to talk to about Watchers. Or anything else, really. 

Gregor, Michelle, and Derek returned, eating ice cream and arguing companionably over ice hockey. The world seemed very surreal. Amanda and Nick came back shortly after. Cory had found them. Cory seemed to be trying to talk Amanda into some kind of larceny, to Nick's utter outrage and shock.

They sorted out the heap of luggage and got everyone on the plane.  There hadn't been seats enough together to keep them all in a group. Thank god.  MacLeod could not have faced _talking_ to everyone for almost seven hours.  Gregor, Michelle, and Derek sat together, with Michelle in the middle, although at the moment she appeared to be favoring Gregor. Methos planted himself at MacLeod's shoulder--which was fine, there were some things they needed to talk about--and Amanda, already fed up with Nick and Cory's squabbling, sent them off by themselves and sat with Joe.

Boarding. Seating. Stowing of luggage. MacLeod was exhausted, but still wired on adrenaline.

At least there wasn't much wait at the gate or on the runway. Things could be worse.

Things could always be worse.

He waited until the plane was in the air and the flight attendant had passed out snacks before saying, very softly, to Methos, "I don't know if it was your idea, but if it was, I forgive you."

He wasn't sure if he would need to explain that statement, but apparently Methos had gotten a report in the car from Amanda and Joe because he was able to answer, "Thank you, that's very generous. But it wasn't my idea. I was just the...inspiration."

"So you know who did it, then?"

He nodded. "And the Watchers have a good guess. When they mentioned Aganesthes, they were testing to see if you knew, and if they were right."

"Who was Aganesthes?" He asked it because he ought to know, not because, at that moment, he particularly cared.

"Rebecca's teacher. An acquaintance of mine."

"What kind of acquaintance?"

"Hmmm," Methos murmured. "The way you and John Kage are acquaintances?"

"Oh," and then, "I'm sorry."

"Yes. Well." Methos closed his eyes. "An elegant solution. It did not succeed in splitting apart the Horsemen, but...It prevented many others of our kind from trying to rule the world by straightforwardly slaughtering mortals and setting up shop as gods or dictators."

"Yes, I see it." Better that those with a taste for power should slaughter one another. Let the Slan Quinces and Kurgans and Kerns of the world concentrate on head hunting each other, let that be their gambit for power.  The winner of the game would have all the power of all Immortals and rule the world. All you had to do was keep your head and wait. _Oh, yes. An elegant solution_. "Rebecca. Fitz. Constantine. Mai Ling. Kutare. Connor." But no, Connor had died for revenge, it was only his life he gave to the Game.

Methos only looked at him sadly.

"You could have told me."

"What would it have changed? Would you run from challenges? No. But you might have fought with less than your whole heart, if you knew you were fighting for a lie. I couldn't risk that. Whoever we are, whatever we are to become--we will be much better with you than without you."

"Gee. Thanks."

There was a short silence between them. Around them, too, it was quiet. The lights had been turned down and most of the other passengers seemed to be asleep. The only sounds were the whine of the engines and the roar of the flight. 

"They were wrong, by the way. The Watchers, I mean. There is an error in their records. Not surprising really. It wasn't as though there were photographs and fingerprints around three thousand years ago."

MacLeod sighed. He felt dizzy and sick. He did not want to know. He supposed he ought to. "What do you mean?" 

"It isn't Aganesthes who is buried intact in India. It is Nur Hamdra Des--another you would have liked, actually, but not the man they think."

So there was no point in trying to dig up the man himself. "I suppose you know this firsthand."

"No, from Rebecca. Aganesthes was killed in Lutece in the sixth century. The city was under attack from an invading army led by an Immortal."

MacLeod closed his eyes and nodded. "Darius. I understand." He swallowed. "Is there anything else?"

"No, I think that's enough," Methos flipped up the arm between their seats and slid an arm around MacLeod's shoulders. "I don't think you can take much more."

"Is it _all_?" MacLeod asked through his teeth.

"Yes. Yes, that's all. Your teacher is dead and everything you have fought for most of your life is a well-meant lie begun by a very wise and good man who has been erased from the earth. That's all."

"Not...everything," MacLeod whispered.

"No?" Methos was stroking his hair. "Tell me what is left."

"Love is left. My-my family." He tried to smile. "Even Cory, god help me. And you are left. If _you_ can be this good--"

Methos raised his eyebrows. "If I can be this good, there is hope for anyone, hmmm? Anything can happen?"

MacLeod ignored the bitterness and gently cupped Methos' face. "Yes. Anything." He sighed. "I don't suppose you have a clue what we do next."

"Next, you get some sleep." Not the answer he'd been hoping for, but not a surprise. Methos was waiting for him to decide.

 

 ~TBC

 

 


	4. Snow: Days 4 and 5

He slept for a couple of hours, as soundly and as comfortably as if he were in a quiet place on a soft bed. Perhaps he'd been hiding from the terrible truths. Perhaps the truths weren't so terrible when you were surrounded by family.

In any case, his bladder woke him, and he detached himself from his seatmate and headed for the lavatory. The passengers were mostly sleeping, most beneath thin, airline blankets, a few hidden by facemasks.  Of his own people, Michelle was awake and reading, while her two pursuers, one on each side of her, were sound asleep. Cory and Nick were both awake, whispering with their heads together. Damn. Cory could corrupt a pope, and Nick, as nice a guy as he was, still had not recovered the common sense and perspective he'd lost with his mortal life (although Amanda and Joe differed on how much he'd had to start with). If those two got into trouble, Amanda would expect MacLeod to get them out of it.

Amanda and Joe were sitting right behind the lavatory. Their spotlights were off, so MacLeod assumed they were asleep until he was just behind them.

"I need some advice," Joe whispered. "It's about... you know. Men."

MacLeod froze. Before he could retreat or make himself known, Amanda answered, "Aren't I supposed to be asking you that?"

He snorted softly. "Not this kind of advice."

"Ok, shoot."

"I think Adam might be mad at me."

Between the seats, he could see the shadows of their faces. Over the seats, he could just see the very tops of their heads. He was torn between the urge to creep just a little bit closer and a bad feeling about eavesdropping.

"Oh. Don't worry about it. Everything worked out. He'll get over it."

"No, I'm not talking about today."

Amanda's shadow nodded and moved closer.

"About two years ago, he propositioned me."

Amanda emitted a very soft squeal and said, "I had no idea. Ooooh, how was it?"

"No--you don't understand. I turned him down."

"Oh." And then, "Oh. Why?"

"I told him I wasn't into guys."

"Oh." Amanda subsided in confusion.

"Yeah."

"But--"

"Well, in hindsight, yeah, it's kind of obvious," Joe hissed.

There was a short, painful silence, and then Amanda prodded gently, "But he forgave you--"

"I was an idiot. Only now I _know_ that I was an idiot, and he knows that I know."

"Ouch," Amanda breathed succinctly.

"Yeah. And I don't know what to say."

"Ouch."

"He's pretty pissed."

"Well, yeah."

Silently, MacLeod slid backwards. He could not deal with this. Perhaps he should have thought about what would happen if he ended Joe's happy ignorance. Perhaps he could never have anticipated that Joe would reorder his thinking so quickly. Whatever. It didn't matter. He couldn't deal with this.

He would use the rear lavatory. He would pretend this never happened. He would tell himself he didn't know. He would certainly not think about how much pain Methos must be in or how very confused Joe must be feeling.

\--To discover, at fifty-four, that the inexplicable feelings he had for his assignment weren't an exception to the rest of his personality, but that he was bi ...or...something-- 

\--Not the man he thought he was--

\--All the lies he'd told himself, his friends--

MacLeod stayed in the cramped, ugly bathroom for a long time, breathing, wishing he could get some katas in, but there was no room to even stretch. 

He knew, dimly, that usually people weren't difficult. To know what was wrong and what was needed and offer kindness--for most of the last two hundred years that had been pretty much a no-brainer. The world changed and fashions changed and languages changed, but people didn't change, not very much, not when you looked into their eyes. He knew what it felt like to be rejected, and he knew what it felt like to let down a friend who loved you. He _ought_ to be of some use to them.

But he could only cower in the tiny water closet, hot tears leaking out of his eyes, --

Wishing that his own hurt would go away long enough to let him think.

Wishing that he wasn't an idiot.

Wishing that he were someone else.

Like all the other waves of grief induced insanity had, this eventually passed. He splashed his face and crept out of the tiny haven and back to his seat. Methos lifted the blanket for him and offered a shoulder. "Thank you," he whispered.

"We have a couple of hours. You can sleep a little more."

The shoulder was bony, but solid. It was warm and smelled of home somehow. "How long is our layover in Manchester?" MacLeod whispered.

"We don't have one. We're checking into a hotel to rest, then caravanning to Scotland."

"You're kidding!" MacLeod picked up his head.

"No. It's practically Christmas. It isn't easy getting reservations for what might as well be a soccer team. This was the best I could do. Our layover in Manchester would have been three hours _after_ customs, and I wasn't sure how long you could handle the crowds."

Three hours. And then another plane ride. It would have been ugly. "I could have done it."

"Fine. You could have. But we're not in a hurry, and frankly, I saw no point in putting Joe through that."

"Oh." He scowled. "And if Joe says anything, you'll tell him you were worried about me."

"Oh, yes. You're both quite tractable if I go about things the right way. Now stop complaining and try to get some sleep."

"Sorry." MacLeod put his head back down and slid an arm around Methos' waist.  He didn't get any more sleep, but he rested in the warmth of Methos' body and protection.  If he clung too tightly, Methos did not complain.

The flight attendants made motions of morning and then fed them breakfast. After that--Landing. Deplaning. Checked baggage. Customs. Rental cars--a small van and a sedan, actually; Methos had done a very nice job--and the trip to the nearby hotel. Check-in, with dividing up of room keys and sorting out luggage. It was mid-morning and felt like the middle of the night and--and everyone was looking at him so kindly....

They could not all fit into the elevator at once. MacLeod had not seen this many Immortals in one place since the last Valicourt wedding. Any unsuspecting Immortal that happened upon their party must surely assume that the Gathering had descended. The thought wasn't funny.

The gathering was a lie. It would never be allowed to happen.

Upstairs, MacLeod, who had collected his Watcher's baggage along with his own (the bag was not heavy, but there was also a guitar), followed Joe into his room. The room was completely average and predictable, and he barely looked around before setting the bag on the dresser and the guitar in the corner.

Joe looked at him curiously.

"How are you doing?" MacLeod asked.

Joe laughed once. "Great! Nobody's dead yet, and this time I didn't even get shot. I think things are going swimmingly."

"But are you all right?"

Joe scowled impatiently. "Yeah. I'm fine."

It was a dismissal, but it didn't feel right to be dismissed. They were lovers now. That changed things. A man had a responsibility to the people he was sleeping with. "Do you need anything?"

"Frankly? Yeah. Some privacy, a hot bath, and a few hours of not going anywhere." He came back to where MacLeod was standing and patted his shoulder. "Sooner is definitely better than later."

"If you need something--"  


"If I _were_ to need something, I have the number of the phone you're carrying."

MacLeod took a deep breath. "Right. Ok."

"Mac, I love you. Go away."

MacLeod hugged him. It was probably a mushier gesture than Joe would have liked but resisting the urge was beyond him. Yesterday could have gone very, very badly.

He left Joe alone and headed to his own room where he showered and shaved and brushed his teeth and spent twenty minutes or so doing simple stretches to calm and settle himself.

At some point a Xeroxed list of room numbers and names had appeared under his door. Methos, certainly, still playing den-mother. Leaving his sword still sheathed in his coat hanging beside the door, MacLeod collected his keys and went to the room the list said belonged to Methos.

The old man was smiling when he opened the door. "I've got food, are you hungry?" he asked. "A very nice salad and some mushroom stew. Better than that stuff on the plane. I wish we'd been in time to make the air India flight--the food would have been much better."

"All you all right?" Methos didn't usually prattle on pointlessly.

"Fine." He smiled, "A little wired. But so far so good." He waved MacLeod to sit down and began piling food on the little roll plate. "Tomato? Anyway, we have to talk. Connor has been sent to a funeral home north of Glasgow. Joe has made provisional arrangements, but you will need to approve them."

"Is-Is Connor--"

"He is already there."

MacLeod closed his eyes. "Thank you. About how long will it take us, by car--?"

"About five hours. Do you want to visit Glenfinnan?"

It was very close to Glencoe. Travel by car turned days into minutes. "No... no."

"Try some of the stew. It's very good."

They ate in silence for a while. The stew was good, and sat happy and warm in his stomach.

"Joe settled in all right?" Methos asked at last.

MacLeod sighed. "Methos--he never meant to hurt you. He's working it out. He just needs a little time--"

"Oh, _time!_ Is that all?" Methos slammed his dish down on the room's small table and leaped to his feet. "Time," he snarled. "Well then!" He leaned over MacLeod. "How much time to you think there is? He is fifty-four years old. He is taking medication for elevated cholesterol. I--"

He broke off and stormed over to the window, twitching the curtain aside to stare at the parking lot below.

MacLeod put down his empty plate and silently moved up behind him. "Why?" he asked softly, gathering Methos into his arms. "Why is this so important to you? He is your friend. He has never rejected you-- _Never_ , do you understand? _This_ is such a little thing."

It was a long time before Methos answered. MacLeod had almost given up. Finally, he said very softly, "Joe Dawson has never seen me as an icon of anything. He has never been in awe of me, and he has never been afraid of me. My friend. Exactly that.  I know--I know it isn't possible, but it _feels_ as though he knows me. He can't. I know that. He's barely past middle age among his own people. He can't have any idea what I am. But it feels as though he does. I have a home when I am with him."

"I understand," MacLeod murmured.

"You don't. You... accept what I have been. You believe that I have changed. Some days--" He laughed once, painfully, "you love me enough that you don't care what I've been. But when Joe remembers Death, he feels only pity. As much for me as for my victims."

MacLeod opened his mouth and Methos shook his head. "This is not a criticism. I would not trade what we have for anything. Your presence in my life is nothing less than a miracle. It makes me _believe_ in miracles--"

"Shh. It's all right."

Methos nodded and rubbed his eyes. He was leaning into MacLeod's arms.  It felt warm and good to hold him. "Mac, you realize that I am venomously jealous of you."

"Are you?" MacLeod asked, gently turning Methos so that they were facing each other. Methos let his head droop against MacLeod's neck.

"Yes, he loves me. But for _you_ he will break any law, risk any disaster. For you he will abandon his oath, betray his duty, sacrifice his compatriots. For you he will flip his bloody Kinsey without a single backward look. For you. _I_ am just his drinking buddy."

MacLeod shook him gently. "Oh, please. Listen to yourself. He has had one lifetime. That's a very shallow perspective. What did you know about love when you were so young? He's working it out. All he needs is a little time."

"Time. So you said." 

"Yes." MacLeod hugged him. He could not fix what was missing. "By the way, if he finds out you hacked his medical records, he's going to be really pissed."

"What are you talking about? His doctor's office isn't nearly with it enough to computerize the records. I searched his luggage."

MacLeod gave up. He climbed into bed, pausing only to toe off his shoes. Dressed, Methos followed him. They huddled together like children, seeking--well, not warmth, but something very like it. Methos fell asleep almost at once. MacLeod suspected he hadn't gotten a lot of rest on the plane.  Very softly, he snored.

***

MacLeod had strange, unpleasant dreams in which he was Connor and sometimes Tessa was Heather. Even in his sleep he recognized a quickening settling, and he had enough awareness to be grateful for the fact that while it was painful, it wasn't, for example, terrifying or revolting.  When he woke, sunlight was still streaming in around the edges of the curtains and the clock said it was only about two o'clock. Afternoon, then.

Methos was still sleeping, snoring, a tiny, dark spot showing where he'd drooled on the pillow. _Joe Dawson has never seen me as an icon of anything._ It was a hard trick to master, seeing Methos and not seeing a symbol. A man, _a person_ , not five thousand years of history. Not an icon of anything.

Even when you saw him, it was hard to know him. So terribly strong and so desperately afraid. He had been so many people.

Joe had told MacLeod a story about how one weekend, when Duncan had been out of town, Methos--Methos the uninvolved, Methos the man who did not even attempt to shape destiny or control situations--turned into some kind of action hero and rescued Joe's daughter from her assignment, who had turned out to be, by the way, a predator who enslaved women.

Methos had done that.

Just a man. Who, as it happens, hadn't died. A lot.

Methos turned over and muttered sleepily, "If you're worrying again, I'm going to have to insist you stop."

"No, I'm not worrying." With one hand he lifted Methos at the shoulders and with the other he stripped off the soft shirt he was wearing. "I'm thinking that you are very beautiful."

Methos blinked and winced at the light. "Hmmm. A hundred years ago I was 'beautiful.' Now I am average. By the standards of the South Pacific, I am an absolute dog."

"Beautiful. And not vain." His own shirt joined Methos' on the floor. MacLeod ran his fingers over smooth, soft skin, feeling the springiness of muscle just beneath. Warm and soft and smelling sweetly of sleep. "Beautiful."

Methos stretched out, plainly, firmly _available_. His eyes weren’t sleepy anymore, and he was smiling slightly. "Have it your way. I am beautiful."

"You are glorious. You are wonderful." MacLeod punctuated with kisses, with soft licks. Methos shivered. "I want to know you. I want to spend years learning you."

For just a fraction of a second, Methos went still, his eyes widening. Then he breathed again. "Yes," he whispered. "Please."

He might as well start now. "What language?"

"What?"

MacLeod moved up to sitting and began to work on Methos' pants. "What language? What words do you want to be loved with? What is your poetry?"

Methos shivered. "Your language. It doesn't matter what the words are, as long as they're your words. Tell me in English or Spanish or pig Latin. I don't care."

MacLeod had to laugh at that.  Not much of a laugh. He finally had Methos free of his pants and underwear. His first look in daylight. "Beautiful," he said again.

Methos nodded, his eyes shining. "Yes," he said, "that will do."

They didn't speak after that. Methos allowed himself to be led. MacLeod caressed and teased and stroked. Methos, undemanding and careful, held him gently and met each touch with kisses. Faintly, MacLeod remembered that the older Immortals he'd known--Rebecca, Graham, Mai-ling--did not think of orgasm as the best part of love. They _liked_ it well enough, but were never in a hurry, held no great anticipation, and never gave any thought to performance anxiety. Affection. Play. Sensuality. Joy. So MacLeod watched his partner's face for signs of delight and contentment, not tension and hunger. He found the places that made Methos gasp and shiver:  his ears, his nipples, the back of his neck. Short, sharp bites along his shoulder blades made him moan and whisper, "please, yes. please, yes," in a tiny voice.

When they finally finished it was growing dark outside. MacLeod, who had been determined not to keep score, had nevertheless noticed that the old man had come once while he himself had come three times. Normally, he would consider this an injustice to his partner, but Methos looked soft-eyed and sated, so MacLeod didn't apologize.

As they rested, sweaty and relaxed with Methos' head on MacLeod's shoulder, a cluster of Immortals buzzed through the area. Given that they were on the fourth floor, they had to be passing in the hall past the room. "They must be ours," Methos said. "There were four or five of them."

"Four," Duncan said. He could still feel them clearly. One of them was Amanda.

Methos frowned. "Is this precision new?"

"Connor used to try to teach me...." Duncan sighed. "Maybe it's him. I don't know. Maybe I've just got so many big ones." So many quickenings. So many dead Immortals. Tokens collected to keep score in a Game that was all a lie.

Methos hugged him. "Never mind. Shall we shower and join them for dinner?"

The clothes MacLeod had been wearing were rumpled, but still clean. They showered--together, but quickly--and dressed. "We should check on Joe," MacLeod said as Methos locked the door.

"No. We shouldn't. He's asleep. He won't thank you for waking him."

"But--"

Methos put an arm around MacLeod's waist and steered him firmly toward the elevators.

In the hotel dining room they found Amanda and Michelle, along with Michelle's two shadows, Derek and Gregor. "Where's Nick?" MacLeod asked, pulling up a chair. "And Cory?"  He wondered if it was poor form to hope Cory had left town.

"They're upstairs. They've ordered in a pizza and Cory is telling Nick stories about my misspent youth."

"You're going to regret putting them together," Methos laughed.

"I already do. Mac, you remember that little embarrassment in Norman, Oklahoma?" She smiled icily.

MacLeod laughed. "Not to mention Kansas City. And that mess with the Russian mob five or six years ago--"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, stop! And apparently Cory and Dexter had a thing going in Eastern Europe between the wars, so Cory now knows all my Dex stories, too. But really, who could have guessed that _that_ pair would turn out to make friends. It's hardly fair."

It was hardly _likely_ , from what MacLeod knew of Nick, but at the moment it was not his problem and he hoped it would stay that way.

They spent the next two hours eating plates of snacks and talking about normal things.  Gregor and Derek had moved past the stage where they were trying to impress Michelle with their manly prowess and were now trying to impress her with their command of serious subjects: Derek was earnest and serious about political economy in the Third World (the reason he had gone back to the states for an education was so that he could eventually run for office in his new home), and Gregor was excited and optimistic about recent discoveries in human brain chemistry. Amanda sat back and watched their competition like an amused cat, while Methos occasionally told a frightening and/or gruesome story from the history of medicine, but mainly sat quietly and played footsie under the table with MacLeod.

The desperate, shrieking loss that had been echoing in MacLeod's mind since Connor had died had settled in his belly as a quiet, mournful ache. He tried to ignore it and listen to the conversation around him. He tried to pay attention to the foot Methos was playing with, taste the food, answer when spoken to. Sometimes he succeeded for several minutes in a row.  The gnawing ache was always there, even when he wasn't dwelling on why.

Afterward, the party shifted to a club just down the street. There was very loud music and dancing and quite a lot to drink. MacLeod sat near the speakers and danced until he was covered in sweat. He drank as much as he could put away. It did not succeed in driving out the pain. It was barely midnight when he gave up and returned to the hotel.

Alone in his room, he dreamed. He was standing on an unfamiliar beach with a man--also unfamiliar, and yet at the same time _not_ \--whom he could not quite see. MacLeod could smell the air, feel the sand beneath his feet. It was very real.

The man said, _And now for the last. Trust me._ He pointed to the hillside overlooking the water. _Look there_ , he said, and MacLeod, intent on seeing it better, closed his eyes.

There was an animal on the hill, young and strong. _Feel the stag. His heart, beating._   The voice issuing the instructions was not one he could disobey. A rush, over him, through him. A sweetness.

_The blood, coursing. Feel. Come on!_

He could feel the life of it, its thin, small quickening, tiny, but so, so bright. It burst through him, like the morning sun burning off the clouds. It was a glorious joy. Standing still, he could scarcely contain it.

 _MacLeod! Come on!_  

Like fog giving way before a strong wind, the brightness shown from the stag. How had he not seen this...?

 _I feel him,_ he said, surprised, as though he had never felt such a thing before.

 _Come on! Come on!_ The other man was running, driven, not by demons, but by a burning, endless excitement. MacLeod understood it, even as his own joy burst forth, brilliant and blinding. Impelled by the brightness, he began to run himself.

 _MacLeod!_ This _is the quickening._

Oh, yes!

\--He leaped awake in a dark motel room in Manchester. It was close enough to the airport to hear planes going over. Traffic from the street below echoed off the sides of buildings. Connor was dead, and there was nothing in the world that was special or wonderful or joyous.

***

The next morning he found the door to Methos' room standing open and most of their party assembled there and munching a vast room-service breakfast. The chairs were already full, but MacLeod took a seat cross-legged on the bed and accepted a cup of coffee and a croissant from Gregor.

A moment later, Cory arrived, completing the party. He held out a couple of maps to Methos, who took them with a murmured thanks.  MacLeod felt a faint envy. He had never gotten Cory to be helpful about even the simplest things.

Methos retreated to a corner with the maps, and Gregor gently nudged MacLeod. "Not that I would ever question you, but I was wondering..." He nodded toward Joe, sitting at the room's tiny round table with Amanda and Derek. The question was not impolite--or even inappropriate, under the circumstances--but MacLeod felt himself bristle.

Before he could answer, Derek replied, "When my teacher was running from the law after a Challenge went bad, Joe Dawson hid him."  He was looking at Joe with an admiration that suggested that he knew a great deal more than that.  Possibly--probably--Reverend Bell had been talking to him about Watcher history. It could give a man a headache, wondering how much everyone knew.

"He's my family," MacLeod answered. "As much as any of you are."  The only one of them MacLeod would not lose to the pointless tragedy of the game. The thought made him a little sick.

Methos returned waving the maps. "I've marked the route in case we get separated. I have space for us in a bed and breakfast, but they only had seven rooms available, so there will be some doubling up. I leave it to all of you to sort that out."

Amanda sniggered very quietly into her coffee.

"Heads up," Methos said, and tossed her a set of keys. "You've got the sedan. I trust you can remember that this is kind of important? The minivan is taking off in half an hour. As many people as can fit are welcome to join me."

It was, in fact, almost forty-five minutes before they got on the road. Besides Methos and MacLeod, the minivan carried Michelle, Derek, and Gregor. Joe went with Amanda and the others. He might have been avoiding Methos, but then again, he might only have wanted to take notes on developments in the other car.  MacLeod could see the attraction. Cory might be interesting, even amusing, now that he was pestering someone _else_. How could a Watcher resist?

Methos and Michelle sat in the front seats. MacLeod sat in the middle beside Derek, who spent the first hour catching him up on the news: Carl Robinson was getting married. They hadn't set a date yet, but they were very serious.  The woman was Immortal, a doctor associated with new hospital going up in Trinidad. It was something of a big deal, since Carl hadn't been in love since the late 1950's. He was building her a house. 

The thought of Carl nesting made MacLeod smile.

The conversation shifted to techniques for transporting edged weapons (Gregor's disassembled, which Michelle and Methos both thought was very cool) and ways to set up really solid fake identities. Though MacLeod would never have expected it, Michelle had trouble with that one: "I mean, it's one thing to use a fake ID to buy a beer. But it feels wrong, crossing borders and filling out tax forms. It's not right."

Methos looked at her and scowled. "What's not right? Your name is nobody's business but your own."

"Well, sure. Mr. _Smith_. Not very creative, by the way. It isn't right to be lying about who we are. Not to governments."

Methos rolled his eyes. "Arguably-- _arguably_ \--governments have the right to tax. I use the roads, if not the police or the health care system, and while I have no children to send to school, I would rather not live in a society full of ignorant thugs. But they don't have a right to know who I am, because they can't tell me who I am. Only I can say who I am. And besides, what is a name, anyway. This whole business of making names official and writing them down and not being able to change them as the personality develops, it's just modern silliness."

Derek, looking both pleased and scandalized, leaned over to MacLeod and whispered. "Is he kidding?"

"No, I am not kidding. Besides, I predate any government currently in existence. It's not like I could have a birth certificate on file, even if I was willing to be restricted by one."

Gregor laughed. "Not the Vatican." 

Methos laughed back at him. "Stop it," MacLeod said sharply. He knew. Joe and Amanda knew. And Wolfe had to at least suspect. That was bad enough. Methos did not need to out himself to four more Immortals. He walked a thin enough line as it was.

Methos met his eyes in the rearview mirror. "Mac?" he asked, sobering.

"Just--Don't tease."

The green-grey eyes flicked between him and the road. "All right."

They stopped half an hour later for lunch at a small country inn that specialized in curry. "Indian food?" Derek asked.

Gregor smirked at him. "If you don't develop an edible national cuisine, the next best thing is going out and conquering one."

The food was good. MacLeod was fond of Indian food.  He couldn't bring himself to eat very much. Despite his best efforts to stay present, when the meal was over he couldn't remember any of the conversations.

When they exited the inn the air was colder, and it had started drizzling. Methos gave his van keys to Nick along with instructions for checking in at the bed and breakfast. Amanda led MacLeod over to the sedan and settled him in the back seat. She got in beside him and held his hand gently.  Methos and Joe took the front seat. None of them spoke. This leg of the trip took about an hour. It wasn't nearly long enough.

Methos pulled in--much too soon--to the parking lot of a funeral home. "One of yours?" he asked Joe. It was a little late to be thinking of it, but he didn't want to lead his friends into a trap.

"No, not one of ours."

The undertaker was waiting for them.

First they discussed the burial arrangements for tomorrow afternoon. The Watchers had known Connor quite well; knowing what he wanted hadn't taken much thought. The problem was complicated by the fact that Connor had not buried Heather in a cemetery. When Heather had died he had still been too furious with the church to even consider such a thing. The landscape had changed a great deal, even since MacLeod had last been there, but the Watchers were fairly confident of the location of her grave. They had secured the property and put through the necessary paperwork.

Even with MacLeod's connections, it would have taken weeks to do as much. "Joe, I--I don't know what to say."

"Don't thank us," Joe said bitterly. "It's the least we owed him. He was a victim of our vulnerability. If we had done our jobs, Kell would never have gotten to him."

MacLeod had to see the body himself.  The thought was unbearable, but if some mistake had been made, and it was _not_ Connor that they had, it would be much better to know now.

He had been embalmed. He barely looked like himself. He looked dead.

MacLeod had a sudden urge to say that they'd done it all wrong, to demand they change his clothes, pick a new casket. He shut his mouth hard on the words buzzing in his head. The clothes were fine. The coffin was fine, too. It didn't matter anyway. He fled.

There was a large awning over the front entrance. It kept the rain off, but not the chill damp air. MacLeod stood by the door, panting in the cold, feeling the pain rise up again.

This time the pain was blunted a little. It wasn't as sharp, and it didn't hurt as much. As weary as he was of the hurting, as much as he hated it, the idea of it fading away hurt, too. Connor was dead. That would never change, and Duncan MacLeod had no right to ever stop grieving for him.

Amanda caught him by the waist and led him to a bench on the other side of the door. She sat beside him and held his hand. "Hang in there, Duncan. You're doing very well."

"You weren't like this--when--Rebecca--" he managed through his teeth. His stomach twisted, and he could barely breathe.

"It was completely different.  I wasn't strong enough to face the grief of it. Not like you."

Strong? He laughed at that. Only once, because the single laugh turned into a pain, like a dagger in the belly. Connor was dead. Someday MacLeod would get _over_ that, he would recover from the loss and go on with his life. Just like Amanda had gone on without Rebecca and Connor had gone on without Ramirez.

The grief passed more quickly this time. When he paid attention to the world again, MacLeod found himself sitting on a cold bench with Amanda and Joe pressed into him from either side and Methos standing a couple of feet away, one hand inside his coat. He felt a stab of guilt. Methos was standing guard. It must terrify him, traveling and exposed with a Duncan MacLeod who couldn't defend himself. _How will I repay him for this? How will I repay any of them?_

"Where--" he had to clear his throat and start again. "Where are we going next?"

Methos looked him over sadly. "Lodgings. When you're ready."

***

The place Methos had found was called The MacDonald Guesthouse. The larger main building had been completely turned over to guests. It was stone and two stories and quaint. The minivan was already parked out front. So were two other cars; their odd party wasn't the only one in residence.

The entryway opened onto a large parlor furnished as a common room.  The antiques weren't particularly valuable, but the carpet was in good shape. The décor ran to a few too many teddy bears and way too many doilies, and it was mostly pink, but that wasn't important anyway.

The children were in the common room. They had pushed back the settee, borrowed or stolen some old broom handles, and Gregor and Cory were giving sword lessons to Michelle, Nick, and Derek. Gregor was reaching around Nick, slowly guiding him through a complex move. "No, you don't shift your weight yet. Stay on your center of balance... right... here...."

"But look," Michelle said, "I could counter him like this." She was ostensibly the opponent.

"You could counter it, but not like that," Cory said. "When that's moving at speed, it has a lot of force behind it."

It was good to see them helping one another. Of more value than the training itself was seeing them get along. Most challenges were between strangers. Especially these days, now that the world was no longer used to its violence being so intimate. Today, people killed with guns or bombs. Fighting to the death with swords, looking your opponent in the eye for an extended fight, was a fad that had passed.

It wouldn't matter. He would probably lose them all to the damn Game anyway.

Duncan sped from the common room, fleeing the company he suddenly couldn't bear. The kitchen was tiny; a mini fridge, a microwave, a stove that was antique and gleamingly nonfunctional. It had a large vase of flowers on it. And another teddy bear.

Out the window he could see a small garden. The trees were dormant. The hedge was artfully shaped but grey-looking. The flowers were dead and cut back.  He opened the back door and stepped out into the icy drizzle.

In the center of the little garden was a small paved square where you could set up a table and serve tea or lemonade. It must go over well with the tourists in the summer. In the winter it was empty, and MacLeod took off his shoes and started the hardest qi-gung form he knew.

It was cold, and he was quickly wet, but the form brought its own heat. It rose up out of the ground and burned in his belly. It filled his head, his arms and legs. He controlled the heat with the breath, and he used that breath to draw the heat in and in and in.

He was aware of time passing. He tried to ignore it, to turn away, but he could not completely forget time, any more than he could completely forget the pain.

It had been dark for a while when Connor showed up. He emerged from the small pasture behind the garden. He was wearing sneakers and a rain coat, and he carried an umbrella. The rain had turned to sleet, and the falling ice hissed against the umbrella, adding to the vividness of the hallucination. He walked up to Duncan and examined him thoughtfully. "So," he drawled. "This is the best you can do?"

MacLeod came to a rest position and faced his conscience. "I couldn't save you," he said.

Connor shrugged. "You can't save everyone. I could have told you that two hundred years ago. You can't save everyone. So what? For that you come out here and feel sorry for yourself?"

"I failed you. I failed Kate. And in the end, it's all been for nothing. The Game is a lie."

"That may be," Connor answered flatly. Connor had always been so practical and unflinching. He had always looked the unbearable in the face.

"Leave me alone."

Connor scowled. It was the look he gave students who weren't performing to his standard. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Run away from it all? Hmmm? Just because you cannot save everyone--that doesn't excuse you from trying to help the ones you can save."

Then Connor was gone, and MacLeod was standing alone in the dark, soaking wet and terribly cold and no longer able to put the pain aside through the work of his body. The ground was growing slick with the ice that was catching on the trees and collecting in his hair and along the cuffs of his jeans.

He gathered his shoes and his coat and went back into the house.

Amanda was alone in the kitchen. She was sitting at a tiny table covered in a pink lace tablecloth. She was drinking tea. As he came in, she looked up at him kindly and asked, "Hungry? There's leftover wonton soup I can warm up. Oh, and I should warn you. We're being discreet. Tourism isn't big this time of year--can't imagine why--and there's a family of five up from Cornwall, visiting relatives." She pushed a cup of tea across the table toward him.

For several long seconds MacLeod stood still, dripping on the floor and wondering what he ought to do next. Then he reached for the tea. "Thanks," he croaked.

"You're very welcome," Amanda said calmly.

MacLeod sank into the second chair and wrapped his cold hands around the warm cup. "Er--Where--" He couldn't get the words out, but Amanda understood anyway.

"Methos and Joe are in the parlor, drinking beer. The last time I checked, Methos was telling lies about the Trojan war and Joe was pretending to believe him."

Good. MacLeod swallowed hard and nodded.

"I think you could do with a hot shower," Amanda suggested.

Yes, he could. MacLeod drained his tea and climbed unsteadily to his feet.

She led him upstairs to the room where his bag had been laid out. She showed him the bathroom he was sharing with Methos. She sat on the closed toilet and talked about the weather while he showered (the sleet might turn to snow in the next few hours, but the accompanying freeze wasn't going to be very hard, so the ground should still be fairly soft tomorrow).

When he turned the water off, she handed him a towel and then led him to the bed and tucked him like his mommy or his nanny. Or maybe the warden in his asylum. He was too tired to have words for his gratitude, but at least he was far enough gone that the thoughts swirling fitfully through his mind couldn't keep him awake.

 

~TBC


	5. Sleet

Joe had seen these exercises before. When Mac had just come back from Indonesia, that spring when he'd been fighting Ahriman, he'd done this. It looked like X-treme tai chi. There was grunting and impossible stretches, and, apparently, you could do it in the rain while the temperature hovered just above freezing. Or perhaps just below. Ice was beginning to coat the trees. MacLeod gave no sign of noticing. 

Twice Amanda had tried to convince Joe to come away from the window and join the ongoing pinochle game. "I'd don't know how to play," he said finally, hoping she'd go away.

She had wrinkled her cute little nose at him and said, "You're kidding. You're a Watcher. You must know every card game known to man. You must know some I don't know."

But he sent her away. It helped, being here at the window. It helped seeing him. It helped watching him. Which did not say great things about how thoroughly Joe's job had saturated the rest of his psyche, but--

He could not do anything for Duncan. They were lucky he hadn't run away. The defeat of Scotland had taken decades to recover from. Little Deer's death had taken ten years, even with a miracle. Richie had taken a year, and still, MacLeod wasn't really recovered from that.

Outside it was getting dark. Even given how far north they were and how late in the year it was, that couldn't be a good sign. How long could the Highlander keep this up? At least every passing moment got them closer to tomorrow. When they got Connor safely in the ground, perhaps Mac could begin to let go, to move forward. 

The hostess came over to see how we were settling in. Mostly, of course, she was worried about the man in her back garden who was sopping wet and freezing. She came, tisking and fussing, to Joe's vantage at the back window. Methos handled it. He deftly explained how Mac was a great martial arts champion who had studied for years on the steppes. His body was adapted to cold, and his control was so perfect that he was in no danger. The part about 'years on the steppes' was true, but the rest of it was bull. If he weren’t Immortal, Mac would be in serious danger of hypothermia and/or frostbite. As it was, somebody had to watch in case he dropped dead so they could drag him inside. But the nice lady bought it. Of course she did. People will believe any crock of shit if you said it came from the Orient. 

When she had been 'chatted up' and 'gotten round,' Gregor and Cory charmed her out the door and Methos came back into the kitchen. "Come on," he said. "We've been elected to go fetch dinner." 

Joe laughed at that. "You've never run in any election."

Methos laid a hand on Joe's shoulder. "Enough," he said softly. "Tearing yourself to pieces will not help him." 

Joe took a deep breath, forced himself to give in. "Right," he said briskly. "Where are we going?" 

"Chinese," Methos brandished a scrap of paper. "We have a list." 

The take-out place was almost ten miles away. Methos wouldn't order ahead by phone because, in an unknown restaurant, he wouldn't commit without quality control. "I want to smell the place before deciding," he said.

The weather was nasty, but the traffic was light. Methos drove very slowly. In the end, they got a little lost, and went through the same traffic circle four times before figuring out the address and hand-drawn map the hostess had given them. Methos pulled up at the front and let Joe out at the door before driving off to park. 

The little restaurant smelled fine to Joe, but with Methos apparently in a weird, picky mood, he took no chances. He read the menu and waited until Methos joined him. Still playing picky and difficult, the Ancient asked to taste an egg roll before deigning to order. Apparently it was satisfactory, because he ordered the long list he'd brought with him. 

While they waited for their food, Joe sat by the door and pretended to read a local newspaper. There were only two topics available for conversation: MacLeod's grief and the current awkwardness between Joe and Methos. Neither was a topic he wanted to face. 

When the food finally came, the paper bag was completely full. Methos paid and carried it out into the dark night, and Joe wondered why he had been dragged along. Maybe he had just looked that pathetic staring out the window. 

Outside it was freezing cold and the thin rain was hissing icily against the sidewalks. The lamp posts were clearly showing a translucent glaze. "Hell," Joe muttered, adjusting his collar to keep the worst of the cold trickle from finding its way down his neck. 

He was thinking, Well, damn. Tomorrow is going to be bad enough if we don't have to hold the burial in this weather. But there is no way I can see postponing it-- when the cane shifted slickly, and Joe felt his balance go. Startled, he reached out with his free hand--nothing to catch himself on--and Methos caught him by the upper arm. Swift and solid--the grace of having spent several thousand years in a body--Methos needed no special exertion to bring Joe back to stable. For a moment they froze, standing closer than they had in a very long time, still a little tense from the near miss, not at all comfortable with one another. Joe held his breath, but the Immortal said nothing and betrayed no expression with his eyes. 

Abruptly, Methos let go and stalked toward the car. He did not move so fast--and it was not so far--that Joe was left very far behind. When he caught up, Methos was just wedging the bag with the food on the floor of the back seat so that it wouldn't spill. He stood up and closed the door, but when he would have opened his own door, he found Joe blocking the way. 

He raised his eyes and met Joe's gaze squarely. His mouth was relaxed. His calm was nothing short of serene. It did not fool Joe in the least, and, realizing that he had been found out, Methos turned his head so that he was speaking to the empty space above the roof of the car. "Ignore me," he said. "I am a foolish old man." 

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Joe whispered.

Methos nodded. "Yes, I know," he murmured pleasantly. "You are my friend." 

"I'm sorry." 

And here, at last, Methos let slip a little of the bitterness that Joe had been dreading. "Yes. You said so at the time." 

At the time. Two years before, Joe had gone on vacation to Italy. It had been his first time off since the three weeks he'd taken to straighten out personal business in the States after MacLeod defeated Arhiman. He'd gone someplace he'd never been, where nobody lived whom he knew. He'd wanted to make new memories. He'd wanted to forget himself for just a little while.

The second day Methos had turned up. The old man knew Rome very well--the pretty churches nobody ever visited, the best frescoes, the most overlooked museums. Going to a monument with him was a historian's dream, and Methos had been very generous then. He had talked without coaxing or complaint. The days had been filled with incredible art and the nights spent in the best bars. It had been the sort of vacation people wait their whole lives for and then never have. And then, on the fifth day, in a quiet corner of a garden in an estate outside of town, Methos had kissed him. 

Joe had freaked.

Then, he had apologized. 

Methos had been as generous a spurned lover as he'd been a tour guide. He had pretended that nothing had happened. 

There, in the cold, damp night, Methos smiled thinly and said, "The heart cannot be commanded. It isn't your fault." At the time of that vacation, Joe had not dated since before Richie had died. He'd been lonely. And, with MacLeod locking himself in a monastery in a desperate flight from intimate relationships, his prospects had looked hopeless. Not that Mac had ever given him the slightest sign of encouragement anyway. Even if you didn't take into account that he was aging and disfigured, Joe would have numbered among the 'desperate.' And still, he had refused Methos. Wasn't that the nastiest of insults? 'Not even if you were the last man on earth who would have me?' Dear god. But Methos only shrugged. "I am not angry. You did nothing wrong." 

"I was wrong. I was stupid. I took the easy way out. I didn't want to have to figure out who I was all over again."

Methos shrugged again. "Given the times you live in, I can scarcely blame you. Fag is such a dirty word."

"I never--!"

"No. It was only for yourself that it was too terrible to contemplate." 

"Stop being an ass." But what could he say? For two days now, Joe had known he'd been caught in his own lies to himself. When it had only been Duncan who turned his mind to mush he could excuse it as the madness of love or obsession. It hadn't counted. Now, though, face to face with the fact that infatuation had turned to affection, he was forced to admit that affection...felt the same. It was no different than any other affection. "I'm so sorry. I don't even know what those words mean anymore. It's all gotten so...fuzzy." 

"Fuzzy." A fleeting sadness passed over Methos' eyes. Over five thousand years, all the words must change. More than once. What meant anything to Methos, anyway? 

Joe took a deep breath. "What I felt worst about," he said softly, "was that I knew that for you it was different. Being somebody's comrade was just as good a reason as being somebody's husband."

"Better. A well brought up Hellenic matron had no interest in sex and wasn't very good at it."

Joe barely noticed the tempting history bait that Methos was offering. "And I knew that it would feel like I was refusing that, too. Being your friend--"

"The world has changed," Methos said firmly. "I live in the present." 

Joe felt a little dizzy and just as afraid as he'd felt that warm afternoon in Rome. It would be so easy to blame that fear on the male anatomy he'd been trying not to think too much about for years now, but, oh, he was much, much more afraid than that. "My God," he gasped, "How do you do it? How do you live in the present? After--After everything you've lost, Methos, how do you...risk trying one more time?"

Methos smiled sadly. "What's the alternative?"

Right. Put like that, it wasn't a very hard choice, was it? Hurt both of them now and cope with the next time Methos dropped off the face of the planet, or seize this moment now and--well, still cope with the day he was alone again. But at least, if he did this, he wouldn't have regret to compound his loneliness. Joe leaned forward and kissed Methos firmly on the mouth.

The old man shied back. "If you aren't sure--" 

"I'm sure." 

The wind picked up. The rain was definitely sleet now, and it was blowing in vicious little balls of half-melted ice. Methos wiped his damp face. "You pick your moments. We can talk about it in the car." 

Joe nodded and went around to the passenger side. 

"Look," Joe said, shutting his door. "Just tell me what you want. I know you're angry--"

"I'm not angry. I'm just not sure you know what you're doing this time, either."

"Yes, you are. You know I know exactly what I’m getting into. That's why you're pissed. Because I didn't figure it out sooner." Because you'd comforted yourself with the idea that I was incapable doing this at all, so it couldn't be my fault. I didn't fail you, I was just flawed. But Joe had failed him. It turned out Joe had it in him to love Methos after all.

Methos said nothing. 

"It isn't like you to keep a mad on like this," Joe said quietly. 

"I'm not a nice person. I never said I was." 

"Yeah. Right." Joe smiled suddenly. "But I am. I'm a very nice person. Amiable. Forgiving. Humble." 

Despite himself, Methos smiled back a little. "Really. All that and humble, too?" 

"Oh, yeah. Cuz' see, I can apologize. I can apologize abjectly. And earnestly. And in detail." He paused for effect and then demonstrated. "I screwed up. I'm sorry. I’m very sorry. Mostly I'm sorry because I know the thing that bothers you most is wasting time, and--"

He didn’t see Methos move, but suddenly he found that Methos had firmly entrapped his hand. Even through the damp glove, the grip was warm. Joe imagined he could feel the pulse in the thumb that pressed into his palm. "Enough," Methos whispered, but Joe had already stumbled to an uncertain halt. 

"Are you still so angry that what you really want is to punish me?" Joe whispered. 

"No. Anyway, you are the best ally I have right now. I would be a fool to keep antagonizing you. You are a very nice man, but your good will won't last forever." 

His best ally? Joe thought of Amanda. And the very capable Gregor. And the earnest and helpful Derek, for that matter. "It will," he said.

Methos leaned over and kissed him then. It felt...good. And natural. And soft. 

It felt like flying. Or singing.

Joe stripped off his gloves so he could touch Methos' face, his hair, the back of his neck. The skin was cool and slightly damp--and soft, so soft.

For several perfect moments they tasted and explored one another. They were short moments, though. The car was cold, and they both started shivering very quickly. Body heat might have helped, but they had no chance for it in bucket seats. 

"Damn," Methos said. He pulled back and started the engine. 

Back at the house, Methos took the food into the dining room and Joe headed to the kitchen. Mac was still at it. Someone had turned on the outside lights, so the slow, formal dance was clearly illuminated. Joe wondered if Duncan was feeling the cold, and if he was, if it was some kind of self-punishment. It hardly seemed likely, but...nothing like this had ever happened to the Highlander before. To lose Connor was bad enough. For it to happen like this--It might break him. In Duncan's place, Joe wasn't sure he would be able to cope at all.

Methos came up behind him and slid an arm around his waist. "He can't be comforted, not right now. The only thing he can do is let the pain pass through him. He's doing exactly the right thing."

"Great. Glad to hear it." 

Methos sighed. "Come," he said. "Eat something. Sit down. You cannot help him." When there was no answer, he added, "Damn it, Joe, I will need you tomorrow."

Gracelessly and ungratefully, Joe gave in and followed Methos into the dining room, where he ate Chinese food and didn't complain. There was, again, red wine. Eventually, Methos noticed the dirty looks he was giving it and murmured impatiently, "It's not that bad. You're getting no sympathy from me!"

"No, it's not bad," Joe conceded. "It just reminds me of the time I spent more than two weeks hiding in the wine cellar at Shakespeare and Company. Have I told you about that? No wait, you were there."

"Yes, I was. And that wasn't that bad either." 

"Oh, yeah. Nice little vacation. Wasn't worried about anything." Except that Methos had left for most of every day, playing Watcher in the great hunt for MacLeod. Joe had had nightmares about what Shapiro would have done if he'd discovered what Adam Pierson was.

And maybe Methos saw what Joe was thinking, because under the table Methos took Joe's hand and held it very tightly. Joe was so distracted by that hand--it was warm and solid and lean and long--that he didn't notice at first when the conversation turned to a competition of the 'worst ways I have died' variety.

Actually, if he'd thought about it, exchanging gruesome war stories was just the sort of thing he'd expect from Gregor or Cory. He was surprised, though, at how good Amanda was at it. The woman took chances. And, boy, could she tell a story. After letting the others gross Derek and Michelle and Nick (and Joe) out with stories of knife fights and improbably high falls, Amanda related a story about going down with the ship in very cold and possibly shark-infested waters. Although she could swim, there was no land in sight, no clue what direction to swim in, and the possibility that if she drowned or died of hypothermia, she might wake up having been snacked on by a shark....

The story itself was pretty boring; ship goes down, woman treads water, woman dies, woman wakes up on beach. But she built so much suspense while telling it that for a moment Joe forgot that he already knew she'd survived.

When she was finished, Gregor, who seemed to suspect that Methos was pretending to be older than he was, said, "What about you, Mr. Smith? Any good stories?"

Methos shrugged. "A few." He frowned thoughtfully. "I'd have to say the worst was being flayed alive, but that didn't count, since I didn't actually die."

There was a moment of utter silence. Methos, still holding Joe's hand under the table, squeezed reassuringly. Michelle grabbed and drained her glass of wine, and the others, appalled, would not look each other in the eye.

Before the silence could stretch too long, the front door banged open and a some of the other guests came in; a family of five who were laughing and shoving each other playfully as they passed the door to the dining room on the way to the stairs. The smallest child, a boy of about eight, paused to wave. 

Joe got to his feet and began to collect empty take-out boxes. After a moment, Amanda and Methos joined him. "I've got kitchen duty," Amanda said. She wasn't talking about washing up; they hadn't used any dishes.

The others drifted away to play with their computers or clean their swords or do whatever younger Immortals did. When they were gone, Amanda slapped Methos gently on the back of the head. "You really know how to empty a room."

Methos blinked innocently. "He asked." He glanced at Joe. "It doesn't matter," he said.

Amanda went to the kitchen and Joe followed Methos into the common room. The couch had been put back, and it didn't look like anything had been broken in all the sword-waving-around. Methos sat and held out an arm for Joe to join him. 

Joe wondered if he should say something. If your friend mentioned being flayed alive, was it kind to ignore it, or just cowardly? Damn. Joe really had no excuse for being so easily shocked.

"You're thinking it was Kronos," Methos murmured. "It wasn't."

"I--" Joe had honestly not thought that far yet. "How are you doing?"

The question caught him by surprise. "With regard to what?"

"Now. This moment. How are you doing?" 

"Oh. I'm fine," he said easily. "I'm always fine." When Joe didn’t believe that, he added, "I get the feeling that we are about to embark on a grand adventure. I really hate grand adventures." 

Despite himself, Joe laughed at that.

"No, really. 'Join us on the grand adventure!' was how they advertised the Trojan War, and you see where that led. Nothing but trouble. But watch; in about two days, MacLeod is going to decide to save the world or something, and then there we'll be, going along for the ride on an adventure." 

"They advertised the Trojan War?"

"More or less." For just a moment it seemed that Methos wasn't saying all that he knew, but before Joe could put his finger on what Methos might be pretending not to mean, the conversation had moved on to the Trojan War, and although Joe was fairly sure the old man had not actually been there, he told a good story. 

Sometime during the long, quiet evening Methos turned the tables and started asking questions. Joe found himself talking about Lauren and Betsy and Helen. About growing up in Chicago. About his first field assignment, who was an utter dweeb working under the name Dwight Begley. "He was this musician wanna-be. A bad musician wanna-be. I mean really bad. He used the proceeds from some lucky long-term investments to subsidize his tiny band that played dives in the American Midwest. He went through three imbedded watchers in half a year. We got them in as the bus driver, but he'd get drunk and pick fights with them and fire them."

"Charming. I don’t remember the name." 

"You wouldn’t. Anyway, shortly after he tossed our third guy out on his ear and the guy in assignments was climbing the walls in frustration, Ian--" Joe hesitated, the memory coming back colored with layers of regret, "Ian Bancroft. He was coming through Chicago, trying to make a formal ID on a suspected student of Darius....Anyway, he'd met the guy handling assignments and he mentioned that I could play the guitar. Maybe good old Dwight wouldn't fire a musician so fast, you know? They usually quit before he could fire them." 

"And that got you into the field," Methos said softly.

"Bingo." The 'guy' in charge of assignments had been James Horton. Before Ian had said anything, he hadn't given Joe much thought. Joe might have spent his whole career hidden away as a historian. Damn, damn. There were so many reasons he didn’t normally talk about his own past. "That was the good news. The bad news was that he played Bluegrass." 

Methos gaped for a moment, then he laughed. "You're kidding." 

"You know I'm not. You must have read my records."

"Not that closely! My god, how did you manage Bluegrass?"

"I was good at it!" Joe protested. "I was nauseous most of the time, sure. But you have to understand, back then I would have done anything to get into the field." He smiled. "It probably wouldn't have been so bad if he'd had any talent at all." 

"I do remember you weren't fired. You got a commendation for turning in a detailed account of your first assignment's last Challenge." 

"Yeah...."

"So will you play something for me?" Methos asked, his eyes shining. "I'm partial to 'Salty Dog.' Oooh! Or 'Fox on the Run.' I know you've got your guitar." 

"You tell anyone about the Bluegrass and I will deny everything." 

The conversation drifted from there. Joe found it harder and harder to concentrate. He felt warm and calm. Despite everything, he was more comfortable than he'd been in a long time.

The next thing he noticed was that Methos was nudging him gently, firmly trying to wake him up. "Come on. As lovely as this is, we cannot spend the night on the couch." 

Blinking, Joe looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight. "Mac--" he started.

"Amanda took him up to bed a little while ago." 

"Oh." He rubbed his face. "Sorry." 

Methos smiled, his eyes gleaming. "Think nothing of it. Anyway, it's a well known fact that as men get older, they become more interested in cuddling than fireworks."

Irritation brought a wakefulness that gentle prodding had not managed. "Now hold it right there. I may not be twenty anymore--"

Methos grinned, "Who was talking about you?" And it was funny, but it wasn't. 

"Will you stay?" 

"Do you want me to?"

"Yes. Please stay." 

So Methos followed Joe to his door instead of heading upstairs. 

The décor in Joe's room was kind of alarming. He didn't know what the other bedrooms looked like, but the hostess was using this one to store her egg cup collection. Three of the four walls were covered in curio cabinets. He entered the room and turned on the lights and looked at those egg cups. He avoided turning around to look at Methos behind him. This was the awkward part. "I don't suppose you'd like to run upstairs for your tooth brush. Or something?" he suggested helpfully.

"Hmm. No. I wouldn't." 

Joe turned around and glared, then, but it did no good. "Fine," he growled. "If you want me that badly, you can have me." He stalked to the bed and sat down. 

When he looked up, Methos was still standing in the open doorway, watching him with such open approval and admiration that for a moment Joe couldn't breathe. The eyes that were always so sharp and unreadable were...soft. Yes, soft. Joe had never expected that.

Unhurried, Methos closed the door, came to the bed and climbed up behind Joe. Kneeling, he played almost absently with Joe's hair. "This is the best part," he whispered, his breath a soft stroke on Joe's neck. "Right now, as we get to know each other. This is the first time. It's all new."

Joe almost had to laugh at that. "Nothing could possibly be new to you. There are no surprises left." He though about that. "Which isn't all bad. Even the difficult shit has to be old hat to you." 

Methos hugged Joe from behind with one hand and continued to play with his hair with the other. "It's not a surprise. But it is new. I've never been this intimate with you before. That's new. And the man I am when I'm with you, that's new, too. I like the man I am when I’m with you." 

New? Five thousand years and anything was new? Methos was expecting him to buy that? But the caressing fingers had moved from Joe's hair to his ear, and it was getting harder to concentrate. They felt good, these little touches that should have been nothing. 

"Do you see it?" Methos breathed. "This beautiful moment that will never come again?"

"Holy shit," Joe muttered. "You're a complete fraud!"

Methos slid his teeth along the back of Joe's neck. "Am I?" 

"You-you pretend you're the biggest cynic in the world. You're not impressed by anything, history is unstoppable so there's no point in trying to shape it, morality is relative--It's all a load of crap!"

Methos laughed. One hand was gently untucking Joe's shirt, seeking skin. "Yes. All of it." 

"You're a romantic. A big mush ball. I can't even count the times I fell for your bull!" Barely listening to his own teasing, Joe leaned back into the solid shoulders behind him. Methos' hand was spread across Joe's stomach now, moving slowly. It was getting hard to remember what he'd been talking about. 

"A hopeless romantic." Methos scooted to the side, changing angles so they could see each other's faces. And then Methos leaned in and kissed him. 

There was a lot of kissing. It wasn't like kissing Mac. That had been dizzying, tingling, electric. It had been an irresistible, stunning, burn in his skin, in his groin, in his brain. The pressure of Methos' lips was almost familiar. The word 'pleasant' floated to mind. 'Pleasant' and 'warm' and 'filling.' The sensation of the touch upon his skin wasn't fire but sweetness. It wasn't a lesser experience. That sweetness, once his flesh tasted it, fueled an urgent hunger all its own. More. More. 

He tugged at Methos' sweater, seeking with hands, forgetting how uncertain he'd been a few minutes before. A liquid honey-feeling was spreading from the outside in. It was surprising. It was amazing. 

There was no time to be amazed. Of their own will, Joe's hands had found the waistband of Methos' pants. Teasingly, his fingers glided over the narrow hips. He could trace the bones, the sleek muscle. Methos sighed. Joe couldn't reach nearly as much as he wanted to, and with his legs still on, he couldn't move very much on the bed. "Give me a minute," he said, forcing himself to pull back and undress. 

Methos gathered up their clothes and tossed them into the room's only chair, then turned down the sheets as best he could with both of them sitting on top of the lace bedspread. Bare, the air in the room was a little chilly, but Methos didn't climb under the covers. Instead he ran his fingers lightly over Joe's throat and chest. It was a lovely stroke, but the look in Methos's eyes was a little haunted. 

"What?" Joe asked gently. Then, "It's all right." 

"Yes," but the answer was shaky--and not because of passion.

"Methos, you've seen me naked before. It's not--" He had been going to say, It's not that bad; you have to have seen a hell of a lot worse.

"Right. And this time you are not covered in blood...." Methos closed his eyes. "It's all right. I am over this." It wasn't a very good lie. The old man was scrambling for his disinterested façade, but he had let himself put it aside and now he couldn't seem find it again.

"You've got some baggage about...all that." Joe had meant to sound reassuring, but it came out a question. Baggage? Methos had gone to pieces in Brooklyn over the Tribunal. If MacLeod hadn't been there things could have easily gotten out of hand.

"All that. Yes." Methos pulled away suddenly, crawling under the covers, hiding. "I have a little baggage about all that." 

Moving slowly, Joe followed him. "You were...very calm, at the time." From what Joe remembered. It was hazy. There had been a lot of pain, and Methos continually prodding him and feeding him things. "You were very calm."

The sheets were cold, but Methos cuddled close at once and his skin was almost hot. He hid his face in Joe's chest. "Oh. Well. Calm. You cannot be a doctor in a blind rage. And you cannot do it and remember love."

It seemed to be a non sequitur. "I don't understand." Methos was very still. "Talk to me. What happened? I wasn’t real alert, cut me a break here." 

"I was packing to leave when MacLeod called me. I was furious. You were the last mortal I loved in that life, and you had been murdered by my superiors. For saving their backsides, by the way. How dare they forget!" He held Joe tighter, steadied himself. "I didn't want to be Pierson any more, and if I'd stayed--I was afraid of what I might do." He was petting again, the nothing touches that reached so deeply. Gently, he caressed Joe's shoulders, his throat. "You cannot perform surgery hating. And you cannot do it if you let yourself remember that if you make a mistake your friend will die."

"Damn."

"Or that even if you do not make a mistake he may die." 

"Methos...."

"You cannot let yourself remember that you would-would not be doing surgery if you hadn't been a fucking idiot." 

"It wasn't your fault."

"I never thought they would kill you--"

"All right. Easy now." 

"And then it was over, and we were cutting off your clothes and washing you...." 

"You did excellent work." He had a painful thought. "And I was such a terrible patient!" The word "quack" had come up almost daily. So had "butcher." Joe felt ashamed.

"Not at first." Methos was still distant and sad. "For three days you didn't argue with us, you obeyed without question. You were too weak to put up any kind of fight." Methos hid his face again. "I kept--"

Joe shook him gently. "I was on morphine! Quit being melodramatic." 

"Right. Of course." He managed a smile. "You were no worse than anyone else after surgery. It all came out right in the end." Methos roused himself, the smile turned teasing. "You realize I was provoking you on purpose? When I fed you with the choo-choo noises?"

And Joe had grabbed the spoon away and called Methos a shit and said he'd do it himself, even though the movement hurt and really, he'd just wanted to be left alone. "Come to think of it, you were a pain in the ass. I’m taking the apology back."

Methos hugged him. "You didn't actually apologize."

"Well, I was going to."

Instead of cheerfully zinging something back, Methos' gaze softened and he whispered, "What a wonder you are." 

Joe rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah." 

Methos began kissing a line along Joe's left shoulder. "Do you know when I loved you? I liked you always. You were good company. And kind. And not full of bull. But do you know when I loved you?"

Joe couldn't answer. The kisses Methos was using for punctuation had moved to Joe's chest. They felt impossibly sweet on his skin, as though they were honey and he could somehow taste it. 

"You actually tried to protect me from Jacque Vemas." Methos pulled back just far enough to see Joe's face. "Me. As though I really were some shy, defenseless, well-meaning researcher whose patron had just died and had no one to look out for him."

Some pissant grad student screws up a Watcher system that has worked for thousands of years-- "It wasn't your fault. But like always, the first thing Vemas did was look for someone to blame--" Joe blinked, thinking it through again. That had been the defining moment? Joe had made a fool of himself and gotten knocked on his ass. 

"Yes. He was a real bastard. He made you look very good; honorable and kind and reasonable." Methos captured Joe's mouth in a soft kiss that put a quick end to the conversation. It felt so natural, as though this had been their relationship for years. As though he had been expecting just this kiss. 

Methos pulled Joe tighter and then rolled them, so that Joe was lying on top. With his bodyweight molding them together, the sweetness of skin to skin was intoxicating. There was also a firm pressure on his groin. The steady, reliable, unassuming hard-on he'd gotten accustomed to as he'd grown older was swelling and throbbing at a rate that startled him. The last few days had been a real shock in that department. Methos wiggled a little, and Joe had to drop his head onto the bony shoulder beneath him and pant. Dear. God. 

He could not contain these feelings. He did not know what to do. He could not bear it. He could not cope. 

"Trust me," Methos whispered, gently carding through his hair. "It's all right." 

Quivering, Joe lifted his head and looked into the patient eyes beneath him. "Hold still." 

Methos froze, but his hazel eyes showed approval.

Joe lifted himself on one arm and with his free hand, gently traced the line of Methos' nose. Cheekbones, eyelids, lips. The skin was soft, the bone and muscle beneath fine and intricate. The jaw was solid. Then Methos tipped his head back, giving Joe easy access to the only vulnerable spot he had. Joe leaned down and kissed the long line of the throat. Again and again. Methos whimpered softly, and his throat vibrated slightly with the sound. 

Touching was just as dizzying, as disorienting as being touched. Feeling almost drugged, Joe found his hands roaming over the broad, pale shoulders by compulsion. He did not know how to stop. He didn’t want to. 

Methos was flushed and sweating. His eyes were open, but unfocused. His hands, spread over Joe's hips, pressed and released in unsteady restlessness. Every touch Joe made seemed to be right. Methos squirmed. He shivered. He whimpered pleas in a language that made no sense to Joe at all. The most canny, careful being on the planet, and Methos had let himself be seduced into helplessness. It was flattering. It was astonishing. It was...a little scary. Possibly a lot scary, if Joe thought about it, but he couldn't think clearly. He was sweating himself and oblivious to everything in the world but his beautiful, sweet partner. 

And then, for a moment, Methos was completely still before arching his back and grinding his teeth. It was scary as hell. It put Joe in mind of a seizure. In less than a second, terror grounded him, and he froze until he realized that this was somehow--impossibly--a climax. Methos was coming. Joe had not touched his dick, and Methos was coming. Just from this cuddling. When Joe had been in high school, they'd called it 'heavy petting,' and everyone knew you couldn't go all the way just from that--

Methos opened languid eyes and smiled up at Joe peacefully. Well. I'll be damned. Joe slid to one side and laid his head on a shoulder that was not nearly as soft as the shoulders he'd once been accustomed to. "How'd you do that?" he whispered.

"I'll tell you a secret," Methos whispered. "I'm very, very old." 

"Bastard." Joe muttered playfully. The jolt of clarity his brief panic had given him was beginning to fade. "I suppose there's no way you can teach it, then."

"Well...you would have to commit to a lot of practices. It might take months. Years even." Immortal stamina. Already, Methos was recovering. He turned sideways and with the hand Joe didn't have pinned, began a slow stroke that started at the shoulder and ended at the hip. "But we won't start tonight. I've teased you enough." 

"Teasing? You're crazy. This is--I've never--I mean, I didn't know!"

"We're not finished." The slow, strong hand slid sideways, found the nest of hair, the hardening shaft. Joe gasped, expecting to be overwhelmed, but the touch remained slow and careful. This caress was no more demanding than the others had been. "The trick is, to be present for every moment," Methos whispered. "To pay attention. To fear nothing." The touch strayed from shaft to head, slow and gentle and without the shortcut of rhythm. It had the same sweetness. It was nearly too powerful to bear. 

At first he tried to pay attention, to participate, to help. Soon it got completely away from him. He was aware, but unable to coordinate a movement. Methos eased on top of him, pressed his own hardness between their bodies, petted and stroked and tickled. When Joe came, Methos followed a moment later. 

 

***

When Joe woke the illuminated numbers on the clock said three-thirty. The light was off and the other side of the bed was empty. He had only a moment to wonder why he felt disappointed when he heard a soft step in the room and the mattress sagged slightly as someone climbed in on the other side. "Methos?" he whispered. "How is he?"

"Fine. Sleeping." Methos rolled closer. His nose was cold. "Tomorrow is going to be hell."

"Sh." Joe adjusted the covers and put an arm around the solid shoulders. "Get some sleep." 

***

Joe didn't manage to follow his own advice for very long. Almost at once it seemed he was staring into blackness, taking deep breaths and trying to flee the nightmare that hovered at the edge of his mind. Mercifully, it was already fading, but he could still remember too much: James. A guillotine. Mac--

He opened and closed his eyes several times, holding very still. He didn't want to wake Methos.

That was the thought that calmed him. He wasn't alone in the dark in some strange bed. Methos had stayed; the canniest, the shyest, the most careful of ancients was sleeping beside him, close enough that Joe could feel the warmth of his body. 

James would have put Methos at the top of his list, if he'd believed that Methos wasn't a myth. It didn't matter any more. James Horton was dead, and Joe was in a position to erase the paranoia and fear that had tainted the Watchers for the last decade. He would see it through, if it took the rest of his life--

And if he wasn't quite sure, at this moment, what 'it' was, well... Whatever peace took, he'd do it. They might well be rebuilding the organization from scratch. They'd need a plan for that, though. It was fair to spend a few weeks putting together some kind of vision. He would enlist Miles. And Barbara. And probably those "South Asian Radicals" everyone was always gossiping about. Radical might be just what they needed. And he would talk to Methos, who might just have it all figured out already.

Joe turned over so that his nose rested an inch away from the warm shoulder of his lover. Methos was sleeping soundly, trustingly, for all that he had a Watcher in his bed. And despite the fact that Joe had treated him very badly. He had turned Methos down with the most insulting of excuses, a transparent lie. It really didn't matter that Joe himself hadn't seen through the lie at the time. He really, really should have cared enough to try, no matter how afraid he'd been at the time.

How afraid he'd been of everything....

He'd believed his own lies.

Oh, Lord, he thought. I've been in idiot, but I've got a second chance now. Lots of second chances, and I won't waste them. Oh, please, I'll take care of them. I'll protect them. Just, please, give me a little time. How much time? Fifteen good years was obviously too much to ask. Even ten was probably more than he could hope for. Five, though...surely that wasn't unreasonable to expect. Even five more good years--I won't waste it. I'll put the Watchers right. I'll protect them.

Methos turned over and wiggled closer. "Do you want to talk about it?" he whispered.

"What?" 

"The nightmare that woke you." And then, "Are you all right? Joe?"

"I’m fine. I'm fine."

"Are you having second thoughts?"

"No," Joe pulled Methos closer. "Just trying to decide if I'll respect you in the morning."

Methos laughed softly at that. "You don't respect me now. In fact, I don't think you've respected me since the early nineties."

"Sorry, buddy, not even then. In nineteen eighty-nine you were responsible for planning Bradford's bachelor party, and you had a singing telegram instead of a stripper. That pretty much spoiled your image forever."

Methos was in his arms, giggling sweetly. "I'll tell you a secret. It wasn't a mistake. Millicent bribed me."

Joe had to laugh, too. "You dog."

"Hush. People will think we're up to something." Somehow the smirk was audible.

Joe kissed his shoulder. "We are up to something."

***

It was after seven when they got up, but it was still dark out. Methos went upstairs to change, and Joe got out his grey suit. He left the tie and jacket laid out on the bed. He wouldn't wear them until he absolutely had to.

Damn, but today was going to suck. The last thing he wanted to do was attend Connor MacLeod's burial. What a mess. But once they had the burial behind them, Mac might start to recover. Or he might run away. Whatever happened, it would be difficult. 

Joe left his room just as Amanda and Nick were coming down the stairs. Amanda looked Joe over with open curiosity and then hopped down the last few steps and caught him in a light hug. "All is forgiven?"

Joe could only nod.

"Oh, I want to hear everything!" 

Joe snorted. "I bet you do!" but for half a second, he was almost tempted to tell her. Amanda understood everything, judged nothing. From what was written in her chronicle, you would never guess that she would make a good friend. On paper, she was anything but stalwart. She traveled without notice, didn't keep up with her correspondence, lied, cheated, stole--and she had left MacLeod to confront angry lawmen (or angry ex-partners she had double crossed) no less than five times that the Watchers knew of. But just as the living Amanda did not resemble her pictures, the Amanda Joe had come to know had a decent and generous spirit. She was soft without being weak. She was kind, and surprisingly easy to be kind to. She was as graceful and fearless as a hostage who was bound hand and foot as she was chatting idly in a bar and drinking wine. Joe knew. He'd done both with her.

She hugged him again. "Tell me you're happy," she breathed in his ear. 

Joe thought about the funeral. He thought about gathering more than a dozen Immortals at a burial plot that wasn’t on holy ground. He thought about a meeting he had tomorrow with three of the middle-eastern coordinators. He thought about Nick watching him with open dislike over Amanda's head. "I'm happy," he whispered. 

Breakfast was solemn, awkward, and distinctly weird. Methos was tripping on Joe's diet again. He had become rigid in his enforcement of his dietary standard. A zealot. Or maybe a fascist. If Joe asked for something to be passed, if it was the wrong thing it simply did not arrive. If he took a piece of disallowed food himself, it disappeared from his plate. At the same time food he had not taken appeared in its place. Methos did not argue or bully or nag. He just took over. 

And it was curious. He might have predicted the massive amount of fruit on his plate, but some of the other decisions Methos insisted on making for him made no sense that Joe could see. Sausage was out, but eggs were allowed. No coffee, but tea was compulsory. He knew enough to understand why the oatcakes had materialized in front of him. But what was wrong with the perfectly good piece of bread that they had replaced? And why had the margarine been moved out of reach and replaced with butter? As little has he knew about diet, Joe had heard that butter was absolutely forbidden. Wasn’t it?

He was trying to stay bemused and curious, because this was sure as hell not the place to start an argument. Amanda would think it was adorable, and she would never let him live it down, for one thing. For another, it was not an argument he was willing to lose, and Methos generally won when it was important to him. He needed a strategy.

The whole thing was also...worrisome. Just a little more than a week before, Methos had been perfectly content to let Joe take all kinds of crazy chances (I'll take care of security, he'd said, but you are going to have to fetch MacLeod). He had trusted Joe to carry sharp objects (If you cannot rouse him, this is a very powerful stimulant. Be careful with that needle: even a partial dose would probably kill you). He had sent him into the teeth of the lion with only the most minimal weapons (It's going to have to be a tazer. If we kill anyone we are all as good as dead). He had never looked worried. He had never paused to ask, can you do this? And now, suddenly, Joe couldn't even be allowed to pick his own breakfast? 

It was weird. And worse, Joe had no more idea what he ought to be worried about than he was certain there was anything to worry about at all. 

Aside from the puzzle of Methos and the forbidden food, breakfast was uneventful. No one talked much. MacLeod arrived last--again, and normally he was a very early riser--and greeted them silently. He was very subdued. He ate almost nothing, and left with Amanda after only a few minutes. 

After breakfast, Joe retreated to the common room. From the window he could see the quiet, charming street. He could also see the footprints Mac and Amanda had made in the dusting of snow that had fallen the night before. Maybe it was the comfort of old habits that had him Watching MacLeod again. Or maybe it was just that it had been so damn long since he could. He'd spent eight months camped in a rented room just up the road from that damn Buddhist monastery. When it finally sunk in that his assignment was staying put, he'd taken a posting back in Paris--a coordinating position in assignments, a measurable promotion--and turned the tiny room over to an eager new graduate who sucked up shamelessly and emailed detailed (but short and repetitive) reports of the Highlander's non-activity every night.

Joe heard a step behind him and glanced over his shoulder. Nick Wolfe hovered just inside the door. Wincing inwardly, Joe stepped away from the window and put his back to the wall. Probably, Wolfe would not physically attack him, but it was hard to be sure. They had met only once in the last three and a half years, and that had been by accident. Throughout the brief encounter, Wolfe had pretended that Joe didn’t exist. 

Frankly, Joe didn't blame him.

For a moment, it looked like the young Immortal was going to retreat, but he collected himself and stepped into the room casually. "So. How does it feel to be the only normal guy here?"

From the dislike in Wolfe's eyes, it was clear that the words were meant as a barb. The tone fell far short, however. Joe heard curiosity, uncertainty, and envy in his voice. 

"Same old, same old," he said noncommittally. He judged it safe to step away from the wall. "You can get used to anything." 

Wolfe's head snapped up and his mouth opened. He shut it again and looked away. 

Joe discarded the impulse to go over and smack him upside the head. It wasn't easy, though. Years past his first death and Nick Wolfe was still wasting his energy hating his fate....And yes, there was a lot to hate. Yes, the price of immortality was too high. But if the kid couldn't adapt to the world he was in, he wouldn't be immortal for very long. 

And it would hurt Amanda so badly to lose this one.

Joe tried to look less unfriendly. "The crowd getting to be a bit much?" he asked. It wasn't so hard to dredge up a little sympathy. Well, very little, but some. Joe had had decades to get used to the idea of Immortals, and still the company he was traveling with weirded him out at odd moments. 

This tiny kindness seemed to unlock Wolfe a little. "You have no idea. Cory Raines...."

Ouch. Joe could well imagine what Cory might have to say about Amanda. "Yeah, well. Don't pay too much attention. Only about half of what he says is true." Too late, Joe winced at his words. Nick wasn't too impressed with Joe's own honesty. Apparently, though, Nick was too absorbed in his own confusion to take advantage of the opening Joe had just handled him.

"So he wasn't the inspiration for about half the Robin Hood legends?"

"Oh. No. That part is true." Showing an unusual jump on the normal Immortal learning curve, Cory had figured very, very early in his life that you couldn't make the world a better place through revolution. Despising the 'haves' who mercilessly exploited the 'have nots,' he nevertheless didn't waste his time fighting the system as such. He delighted himself by being a predator of predators, intent on his own unique vision which combined anarchism, idealism, and a complete lack of a concern for consequences. It was the sort of approach that had to drive Nick as crazy as it drove MacLeod. Both of them believed in order, justice, and the social contract.

"And it just gets more surreal from there. Did you know that Greg crossed from St. Lewis to California in a covered wagon? Do you know how Derek got to be Immortal?"

Joe nodded slowly. "I know," he said, not quite sure where this was going.

Wolfe seemed to remember who he was talking to. "Of course you do," he said bitterly. Then his face fell. "But you're the only person who makes any...sense." 

Not quite true, Joe thought. He was just the only mortal here, the only 'normal' person from Wolfe's life before. "They're just people, Nick," he said softly. "Just like you. Just like...me."

"Amanda says there's a man running around out there who's five thousand years old." 

"That is true," Joe said softly. 

"Five thousand years old," Wolfe repeated. He looked a little sick. "And I think it's Reggie." 

In a heartbeat Joe closed the distance between them. "My God, you are an idiot." Any thought of being supportive was long gone. "First of all, idiot, you don't make speculations about that in private, let alone in public--and not in front of a Watcher. Yes, I mean me. You don't know what I know. Second of all, 'Reggie' doesn't need the crap that's going to rain down on him if a nasty rumor like that gets started about the value of his head. And frankly--'Reggie' is a hell of a lot more ruthless than I am, and if he thinks for one moment that you are a danger to him, his affection for Amanda will not keep you alive." 

Wolfe was almost as tall as MacLeod--if not quite as solidly built--and hard to intimidate. He took a step back from Joe, though. "Look, I didn't--I wouldn't--"

"No. You won't." Wolfe wouldn't keep score in the Game, and he wouldn't challenge a friend. He was absolutely moral. Joe didn't need to threaten him, just wake him up a little. But the idea that this idiot--even by accident--might endanger Methos had Joe angry enough to hang him by the balls.

Wolfe stared at him. He looked uncertain and a little sad. "What?" Joe snapped. 

"How do you...I mean how do you live with this? You know how it has to end. The Gathering is coming. Amanda and Reggie and MacLeod--they're all your friends. And they all play the Game. How--how are you going to--" And then he stopped, his eyes hardening. "But of course you aren't going to live that long. You get to miss that part."

Joe sighed. "Do you remember what I said to you about having faith?"

"I remember you said there were no happy endings." 

Joe closed his eyes. Yes, he had said that. He'd said it when he'd lied to Wolfe and told him that Amanda was dead. "Look, let's just get through today. Okay?"

Before Nick could finish wrestling with his endless inner turmoil, two of MacLeod's former students came into the common room. Michelle and Gregor. They kept their voices down and their gestures contained--they were waiting around for a funeral after all--but they gave each other small, intimate shoves and laughed softly. Kids today.

Joe retreated into the hall where he ran into Methos. The old man was in his efficient mode, all business. "So? What's the word? Who's coming?"

"I'm sure you can look it up yourself," Joe tossed back automatically. 

"Yes. But I'd rather do this by official channels."

Fair point. Joe led Methos to his room, hooked his laptop to the phone, and pulled up the list of all Immortals moving toward or in Scotland. There was a special list just for them. "See anybody who might be a problem?"

"Not so far. Where's Cassandra?" 

It took only a moment to check. "Turkey." 

"Right then. No problem." Despite his calm efficiency, though, Methos was looking a little strained. 

Joe laid a hand on his arm. "Look, if something happens...If you need to run, go. I can handle things."

"Something like what?" Methos asked, pretending to be mystified. 

"Hell, I don’t know. Anything. I mean it. If you need to go, go."

For a second--just a second--the composed exterior cracked just enough to reveal terror and desperation. Before Joe could even begin to guess at what had brought the panic on, it had passed. "Thank you," Methos said. 

There was a sharp rap on the door. "Oh, Reggie," Amanda sang out, "The hostess is here. If you're free?" Her tone suggested that she thought she was interrupting something more personal than a discussion of the guest list.

Methos laughed and patted Joe on the head on his way out. "Thank you, Amanda. I can't tell you how much I appreciate your generous help. Really, I'm touched. You are a pearl beyond price." His litany of praises continued as he left the room and headed down the hall.

Joe closed his eyes and sighed. It was going to be a long and terrible day. 

~TBC


	6. snow: Day 6

Grey morning came too soon. If it had waited a million years, it would have come too soon. The day he buried Connor.

MacLeod washed. He dressed. He went down to breakfast.

The others were already there.  The quiet dining room got quieter as he came in.  The room was claustrophobically packed with tables.  A family was crowded over near the window and two businessmen sat at a round table tucked in the corner. The Immortals had taken almost everywhere else. Breakfast was laid out on the sideboard: porridge and fruit, sausage, muesli, authentic looking oat cakes. He filled a plate and took a seat across from Amanda, between Wolfe and Gregor. 

There was a pale blue envelope lying on the table. In neat, sharp letters "Mr. MacLeod" was written on the front.  Amanda wrinkled her nose. "I wouldn't open that. It's a sympathy card from the hostess." She winced in apology. "We had to tell her something."

"We're here for a funeral. It isn't a secret."  MacLeod looked around at his funeral party, so large he had to do a head count to be sure everyone was there. Everyone was.  No doubt they would be with him all day. He wished he could manage this without them watching. He was fairly sure he could not make it without their help. He ate, not tasting the food.

Some inner remains of a newspaper were lying in a neat pile next to the small vase of flowers that graced the end of the table. Glancing down, MacLeod saw that the date said December twenty-first. His birthday. Well, damn. He had really, really hoped he'd already missed that. For a moment the burning, endless grief threatened to well up and swamp him yet again. He closed his eyes and swallowed the pain back. There was no more time for tears. He could not afford to abandon the living for the dead. It was becoming more and more clear what he had to do--huge and impossible as the task was.

Resolutely, he took a deep breath and made himself look around: his family, most of what was left of it. Whatever it took, he would find a way to keep them. Michelle was frowning vaguely, her eyes on the two youngest children arguing over the last of the melon. Amanda was having some kind of silent argument with Nick, but it wasn't clear who was being reprimanded by whom. Cory was having a quiet, but urgent-looking conversation with Derek. If it had been anyone else, Duncan would have worried, but the devil himself couldn't corrupt Derek. Methos stood up and politely--almost demurely--began to refill people's cups. He set a cup of green tea in front of Joe.

MacLeod waited for Joe to refuse to take it (his feelings on tea in any form not being a secret), but instead he only said, "Sugar?"

Methos, taking Michelle's empty cup with his left hand, passed Joe the honey pot instead of the sugar. MacLeod winced. Apparently Methos was trying to start a fight. Joe didn't tell the old man where to put his damned honey, though. And he didn't get up and fetch the sugar himself. He took it with no comment at all, except for one gentle and slightly worried look directed at Methos' back.

Oh. They'd settled it, then. MacLeod was sorry he'd missed that. There was only one way that tension could have ended this peacefully. His guess was confirmed almost at once. As Methos sat down again, he brushed one hand casually along Joe's shoulder. The tiny gesture was clear evidence of  affection and intimacy to anyone who knew either of them well.

MacLeod remembered the day Joe had told him that the five thousand year old man wasn’t a fairy tale, and that whoever he was, wherever he was, Kalas was hunting him. He remembered being pissed and afraid...surely it was some kind blasphemy, that anyone would seriously contemplate seeking out and butchering the very oldest of their kind.  He had imagined Methos: not only ancient, but elderly, living somewhere quietly, hiding, perhaps presiding over some holy shrine or temple deep in the mountains or out in the desert.

Ha. Methos was just like everybody else, except that it was still a blasphemy, the idea that all he knew, all he had to offer the world could compete with his value as a sort of  bonus round in the Game. No, game. Just a game. There was no prize, not one that anyone would ever win, even if it had ever existed in the abstract. A game, just like cricket or basketball. Except it was played by murderers and you kept score in bodies. A really bloody sport, and dangerous, but then, so was racing motorbikes. Ask Richie.

For a moment, it was all he could do not to jump up and rage at the injustice of it, the waste, the tragedy. How could they not see it? How could they accept this quietly, go willingly to their deaths?

Gregor laid a hand on MacLeod's arm. "You all right?" he asked very softly. The prosaic words dragged MacLeod back to the moment--the quiet dining room, the dreary morning, the porridge congealing in the bowl.  Gregor handed MacLeod his own water. "Drink this," he said, firm and doctor-like.  MacLeod drank, and the cold water washed away the bile in his throat.

He handed the water back with a good facsimile of calm, "Thank you." Amanda's plate was empty. MacLeod stood up and said to her, "Take a walk with me?"

"Sure," she answered, looking serenely unruffled. "Just let me get my coat."

***

The bare branches were glazed with a glittering layer of ice and then frosted thinly with snow. If there had been sunlight to shine on it, it would have looked crystalline and ethereal. Under the pale, cold sky it just looked ominous.

MacLeod took a good look at Amanda. "You changed your hair," he said. It was chin length and red.

"Really, Darling. I'm flattered you noticed." Neither her humor nor her affront reached her eyes. "How are you holding up?"

He shrugged. "Fine. Great. How I'm doing is no secret." He paused, frowning, dredging up a conversation he'd had last August. Joe had stopped by the monastery for an afternoon. MacLeod had let himself indulge in a little gossip, a few minutes talking about old times. "I hear you've been busy lately." An understatement, he knew. She'd been busy for the last three or four years, but they'd never talked about it. Not that he had seen her more than twice in that time.

She smiled. "A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do."

But MacLeod found himself going cold, even in his long coat. "What was it about? Honor?"

"God forbid! Me? Never." But she winced and looked a little uncertain. "But sometimes you have to stop and take responsibility for your actions. Face up to your life. And--and there are things worth protecting. Friends."

"Principles?"

She laughed, the old Amanda again suddenly. "Never that."

They stood quietly in the cold, their breath freezing in the air between them.

"Tell me about the meeting."

"The Watchers?" she asked.

"I want details."

She nodded, slipped her arm through his, started walking again. Amanda always had a perfect memory for details. "What surprised me was how little Joe talked."

"Go on."

"When we got there, several arguments started. The English guy--ah Bancroft? Stood up and started reading a list. Names, cities, and flight numbers. He got through maybe a dozen before everybody quieted down. Almost everybody. One guy kept on yelling in Chinese and French."

"About what?"

"I have no idea. He kept referring to dates and places. It must have been some Watcher thing. Anyway--Bancroft asked him where "Lao and Lavinia" were. Apparently, about half an hour before, they were at a ticket counter in Hong Kong making reservations for Kennedy Airport. I don't know "Lao," but I have an idea who Lavinia might be, and if she's left holy ground....Well, the Watchers don't want her for an enemy."

"Did you call her?"

"Oh, no." She gave a tiny shudder. "Methos probably did. Anyway, when he heard that, our argumentative friend got out his cell phone. You could have heard a pin drop in that room, everybody was just staring while he checked. Apparently, they were 'his' Immortals."

"I guess that shut him up pretty quickly," MacLeod said wryly.

"However did you know?" she drawled.

"Losing your Immortal is embarrassing.  So then what happened?"

"Ah. Then Joe started talking. And he was....Oh, Duncan, he was good. Churchill good, do you remember? Or--did you ever see Peter III? 'Four thousand years of sacred duty. Honorable, worthy work for which countless men and women had given their lives. And all of it down the toilet.' In one generation, they had pretty much trashed the whole deal."

"Oh dear."

"And whatever goodwill and forbearance they might once have earned by their millennia of service as historians had been expended in their forays into kidnapping and murder over the last decade."

Dear God, Joe. MacLeod swallowed. "Then what happened."

She waved a hand. "Then he sat down, and people started squabbling over what to do next, and then Mr. Bancroft stood up and asked me how I would prioritize what 'worried me most' about the current situation."

"And Joe had coached you."

"Not as much as you'd think. It wasn't a hard question. And, surprise, surprise, people hopped up with the obvious answers. It was more like a business meeting than any thing else. Except people were nervous and they settled on a plan very quickly."

"Can we trust them?"

"Don't you think so? The alternatives are too terrible to contemplate. Can you imagine a war?"

"No," he said. He'd fought in the first two battles of that war already. The losses were still hard to get his mind around. The thought of Horton still made him a little sick. He couldn't imagine facing it again.

"So what do you think?"

"About what? The chances that they can convince their people we'll never take over the world, so there's no reason to slaughter us? Maybe. Some of us are still pretty horrifying, though, even without the Gathering. Mortal lives go past so quickly, and Watchers know that. We all may seem like potential serial killers to some."

"Damn." MacLeod wondered how widely Joe's network was spread, and if he could keep a handle on things.

Amanda stopped walking and stepped closer. "Do you think they can do it? Lock up the prize?" she whispered.

"I think they've already done it. If there ever was a Prize."

For a moment, Amanda looked as pale and haunted as MacLeod felt. "But--why?" she breathed.

"It was a lie, Amanda. It was all a lie. To keep us fighting each other. So we wouldn't lord over them."

"Too bad it didn't work," she said bitterly. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"What?"

"Did Joe tell you?" she asked with a brittle brightness. "I met up with Andre Korda again a while back. Still scary as hell." She winced.

"Amanda--"

"Oh, don't worry. I won."

"Amanda."

"Duncan, if there is no Prize, where is it going to end? Are we going to be fighting them off forever? Always hoping you don't meet the Kordas and Peytons of the world and staying alert so you can protect yourself when they come?"

He put his arms around her. "Nothing has to be the way it's always been," he whispered reassuringly. "Nothing. Look at Methos. He's not afraid. Whatever is happening, Amanda, it's not the end of the world."

They walked back to the guesthouse in silence, holding hands.

***

Methos was in the kitchen talking to a mousy woman in pink about dates and times.  When MacLeod came in, she cast him a long, pitying look, promised Methos anything he needed, and hurried away.

"She looked happy," MacLeod muttered.

"She should. I've given her a very large cheque."

For the first time, MacLeod noticed--really noticed--all the elaborate and convenient arrangements made on his behalf. "Me-Adam. Adam, I haven't thanked you--"

An insincere smile flashed across the old man's eyes. "I'll send you a bill."

"I can't repay the most valuable parts," MacLeod said seriously. "What you've done--organizing everything, watching over everyone, meeting so many people. Being there for me. How can I begin to thank you for that?"

To his surprise, Methos' eyes hardened and he turned and stalked away. MacLeod caught him at the door. "What? Damn it, Methos--" he hissed.

"It's not so bloody complicated," Methos answered, turning in his hands. "There's only one thing I've ever asked of you."

"You want me to stay alive," MacLeod whispered.  Methos was right. It wasn't a difficult answer to come up with. "But I--I can't do that for you. I'm doing that for me--"

Methos went very still, the angry tension leaving him in a single, slow breath. "That will do," he said, and leaned forward and kissed him.

MacLeod opened his arms, drew Methos in. It wasn't comfort, but it was as close as he could get. "You're lying anyway," he whispered. "You’ve asked me to stay."

Methos closed his eye briefly. "A minor inaccuracy."

"I promise I won't leave. But I can't promise you'll want to stay. I won't hold it against you...if you need to be somewhere else."

"Why would I?"

MacLeod sighed, kissed him. "You might," he said. "I'll understand." They kissed in the kitchen until Michelle came in looking for a pencil and some scrap paper.

***

It wasn't hard to find Joe. He was in the room across from the foot of the stairs, sitting on the bed with the door open. The contents of his suitcase were scattered out beside him, halfway re-sorted and re-folded. He looked up a little sheepishly as MacLeod came in. "You'd think by now I'd be good at living out of a suitcase. It always turns to chaos after about two days, and I can't find anything." 

"Just where are you living now?" MacLeod asked. He shifted a small plastic bag of dirty laundry aside and sat down on the end of the bed. "Not Paris."

"No. I have a very nice apartment in Geneva." Sour amusement flared in his eyes. "I had an apartment in Geneva. Apparently, I'm moving to Boston."

"Cold winters, Boston," MacLeod said.

"Well, hell. It's my operation now. I can move the office anywhere that has enough space and support staff. What do you think? Would you visit me in Atlanta? Or maybe Dallas?" The smile he managed was a thin, sad thing.

"Joe," MacLeod said seriously, "We're in this mess together. I'm not going to disappear and leave you holding the bag."

Immediately Joe backpedaled. "I didn’t think you would. You've always been there when I needed you, Mac."

The confidence in Joe's eyes was too hard to meet. MacLeod looked away. Impatiently, Joe shoved aside a pile of miscellaneous underwear and scooted closer.  "Don't start with this crap. It's square between you and me. We're good. Aren't we?"

"Yes. Yes, we're good." He leaned over and kissed Joe's temple. "We're good."

Joe took a deep breath. "Oh, lord. I hope so. Last night--"

"Last night you and Methos," MacLeod whispered.

"Yeah. Are you--are you okay with that?"

"Yes--"

"Because if you're not--I don't love him the way I love you--"

"Stop," MacLeod said firmly. "Stop right there. I know it. And what's worse, so does he. You're not doing any of us any favors by saying it out loud."

Joe nodded slowly, digesting this. "Right. Okay. I won't mention it again."

MacLeod relented, reminding himself just how young his friend was. "He'll be very good to you, Joe, if you let him. And you are so very good for him. I wouldn't come between you, even if I had the right."

"All right.  All right." Unsure, but trusting.

"I like Boston. I've been thinking it's time for a move to the East Coast. But not New York." Not New York. Not now. Maybe never again. "Good restaurants, Boston."

Joe's head snapped up at this sudden return to their original subject. "The...the winters in Boston are very cold."

MacLeod shrugged. "Well. These last few winters in France have been very dreary."

Joe smiled suddenly, looking impossibly young and unburdened.

MacLeod covered one of Joe's hands with his own. "I actually came to ask you for a favor."

"Anything, Mac. You know that."

"Yeah. Well. I need you to work today."

Joe looked at him in confusion. "You want me to sing?"

"Oh! Yes. If you would, afterward. But that wasn't what I was going to ask. I want you to be a Watcher at the burial. I want you to take notes."

Joe looked shocked and a little repelled. "You want a spy at the funeral."

"No. I want my historian." He sighed. "I want Connor remembered, Joe. And I want it written down that his own people mourned him. It's important to me."

"It would be an honor."

"Thank you." Joe permitted a hug, and MacLeod let himself enjoy--oh, for just a moment--the solid shoulders, the bristle of beard, the pleasant scent of living skin.... "Are those egg cups?"

***

Exchanging one cool glance with Amanda, Methos separated MacLeod and Dawson. With all the subtlety of a sheepdog cutting the herd, he settled them in different cars. Methos put MacLeod in the smaller car, with himself, Wolfe, and Gregor his escort. MacLeod bristled under the loss of autonomy, and he did not want anyone else taking risks on his behalf. But the truth was, he was not fit to make decisions. If he interfered, he would likely get somebody killed.

"Adam, what are you worried about?"

"Specifically, nothing. But I haven't foreseen everything, and I don't want any of the packages to be too tempting."

It was still very cold for so early in the year. The sky was still grey and only a little of the ice had fallen from the branches. The roads had been cleared, though, mostly, and the ground wasn't frozen. MacLeod had no idea how long the trip took. North and then west, to a little field on the far side of Glencoe.

It was crowded when they arrived. Cars were parked along both sides of the narrow road, and clumps of people were scattered here and there, standing close together, huddled in their coats. The echo of Immortal presence was so powerful that MacLeod's jaw ached as he got out of the car.  Confused, he tried to focus on faces and bodies.

It was Carl Robinson he recognized first. The man was well over six feet tall and wearing no hat. As he placed that one face, the others jumped into focus. Beside Carl was Reverend Bell and his wife, whose name MacLeod couldn't remember. And Matthew McCormick. And Grace. Grace looked impossibly short and pale, standing next to Carl. They were holding hands.

MacLeod, halfway across the road, stumbled. He blinked and looked again. Robert and Gina were standing next to their car. Between them was a teenage boy. He knew from their letters that this was a pre-immortal they had picked up on their last honeymoon. They were giving a try at being parents.  They were being narrowly watched by Marcus and Ceirdwyn, who were standing about twenty feet away. They were back-to-back and looked anxious. And there were two women--nervous, awkward, huddled--standing a short distance from them. One MacLeod did not know, the other had her back to the road.

Everyone seemed to be watching him. The woman turned around and revealed herself to be Amy Thomas, Joe's daughter. MacLeod swayed. Amanda squeezed his arm hard.

It was the Watchers who moved first. The two women walked up to Joe. Amy pressed her father's hand, but neither said anything. MacLeod wondered if Joe would send them away. Joe said, "Liz, give me your camera."

"I didn't--" she blinked and backed off. "I'm not going to use it."

"No. I am. *You* are not here to work." He held out his hand. The woman took a small digital camera and handed it over. "Thank you. I appreciate the loan." He laid a hand on Amy's shoulder. "I appreciate that you came. Now, wait down here."

"They're invited," MacLeod said softly, politely not acknowledging them.

Joe nodded. MacLeod turned away. The Valicourts were standing nearest. Them next. Gina hugged him. Robert shook his hand, murmuring, "Duncan, we--we don't know what happened. But we wanted you to know...if you need any help, you have only to ask."

He wasn’t going to be able to get through this. MacLeod's eyes were already filling. "I will need you, Robert," he said. "I'll need you both." He took a deep breath and stepped back. Dear god.

Ceirdwyn had come a little closer. He could see that she had been crying a little. She had known Connor. She grieved-- MacLeod nodded to her.

Carl and his party were clustered in the brown grass. Derek had already joined the little group. Mrs. Bell was hugging him. Somehow, MacLeod straightened, managed to close the distance between. Carl laid a hand on his shoulder, and on the other side Grace hugged him.

It was almost too much. The agony of loss that had been hiding, undiminished, at the bottom of his heart started to rise again. He had come to bury Connor--

"Are you all right?" Grace asked sharply. At once, the hot wave of pain retreated. He was standing at the edge of a field. The cold air stung his face. The terrible pain was just a weight or numbness.

"I’m all right," he said.

"Mr. MacLeod," Reverend Bell said softly. He was holding a folder out. MacLeod took it. "We're confident that our research is correct. But...perhaps you'd like to look at it."

The folder held glossy print-outs from microfiche: A map, two charts, notes written in a clear hand, and in English, but with non-standard spelling. Images of original Watcher reports.... MacLeod closed his eyes. Another thing he hadn't given too much thought to.  Only once had he been to the place where Connor had buried Heather. It wasn't on holy ground. In those days Connor had no patience for the church. MacLeod wasn't sure he could have found the spot again, even with Immortal memory. The land had changed.

He swallowed. He said, "Tell me, Reverend."

Reverend Bell explained about landmarks and surveys. He stood at MacLeod's shoulder and selected out different pages, one at a time.  This survey. That survey. The slight change in the course of the creek at the foot of the hill.  A satellite picture. Copies of the documents that gave permission to inter someone here--legal, but impossible to have gotten without inside men or bribes, surely.

Duncan scarcely understood what the Reverend was saying. He trusted the work that had been done, and if there were any mistakes...well, he knew he himself could not have done better. When Bell finished, MacLeod thanked him voicelessly.

Another car came down the narrow road and pulled in with the other cars at the side. It was a hearse.

***

Giving up the nervous distance they'd been keeping from one another, the small parties closed on the hearse. Willing hands took the casket from the workmen, whom Methos motioned to stay behind.

It was Ceirdwyn who started singing. MacLeod didn't know the language or the melody, but it was clearly a lament. There were no acoustics to speak of in the cold, open air. Her voice seemed thin and flat and lonely.   The hill wasn't very steep and the burial site wasn't very far. The reached the neat tear in the ground that would be Connor's grave before the song was finished. The last notes dropped into the emptiness, and for a moment a weary silence flooded in to take its place. 

Then Carl began to sing: "Amazing Grace," which Derek and Gregor joined at once. MacLeod breathed deeply, anchoring himself in the icy air. This had to be borne.

Robert and Cory sang... something.  It was in French, but the words came out to nonsense. It was probably a pirate drinking song. Robert and Connor had been on ship together once, long before Robert had married. _It's not my loss alone_ , MacLeod thought.

Methos sang. The language was unfamiliar--probably dead--and the melody was very strange. Amanda put her head on Nick's shoulder and cried a little. The Watchers--Reverend Bell and his wife, Amy Thomas, and the woman who was clinging to Amy's hand--were all looking at Joe, not at Methos.  They weren't here to wonder about Immortal mysteries.

In the silence afterward, no one approached MacLeod. They wouldn't crowd him or push him or ask him for anything. He dearly wished they would. He wished Methos would take one step closer and touch him. He wished Joe hadn't taken a modest position on the far side of Amanda and Nick. He wished Ceirdwyn would open her arms. But they all simply waited, giving him all the time he needed.

Waiting was not making it go away.

MacLeod took a deep breath. "Connor would have loved this," he said. "I remember--I remember he used to wonder, if we were ever a people. If we had ever lived at peace, with a tribe and a language and customs of our own."  Connor had said that at the pyre when they'd put Little Deer to rest.  He had envied her her clan and her village, her place in the world. He had understood Duncan wanting to borrow that for a while.

His vision blurred. MacLeod tried for a deep breath, but his throat had closed over. Ruthlessly--by God, he would not abandon the living for the dead--he gasped and spoke past the pain.  "He would have loved this. But he is gone." Tears were running, cold and painful on his cheeks. He let them go. "Connor died because he believed there could be only One. And he wanted it to be me." Bitterness. Pain. Gasping, MacLeod pushed on. "How many, Joe? How many of us do we lose a year?"

Joe whispered something that was smothered by the wind.

"How many, damn it!"

"Four hundred!" Joe shouted, scrubbing at his eyes with his gloved hand. "Last year it was more than four hundred."

It was a long moment before MacLeod trusted himself to be able to speak clearly. "The Game is a myth. The prize is a lie. And every year hundreds of us die for it." He swallowed. "No more. No more. Connor, I promise you....it ends here."  That was all he could say. It was all he needed to say. MacLeod stepped back and Amanda put her arms around him and held him. She was a shelter from the terrible cold that was settling into his flesh from all sides.  She whispered nonsense in his ear and kept him from falling over. He did not have the voice to thank her.

There was trick to the rigging. Somehow, Methos, Gregor, and Reverend Bell handled it. They settled Connor's coffin and lowered it into the tidy hole in the ground. Michelle scampered down the hill and fetched the workmen to finish up. 

Penned between Joe and Amanda, shivering--or maybe just shaking--MacLeod waited until they were finished and Connor was covered by earth.

He did not remember the trip back to the guesthouse.

When they arrived, a small van was pulled up in front and two men were unloading boxes of food.  Someone had thought to have the bereavement catered. Macleod assumed it was Methos. It was all he could do not to laugh a little hysterically. The old man thought of everything.

It was Grace and Joe who guided MacLeod out of the car and led him into the house. Cars...seemed to just keep arriving. How many Immortals? MacLeod looked around, tried to count, lost track at thirteen. So many in one place was dangerous. But then, that was what he was trying to change.

"Mac?" Grace asked, speaking very slowly. "Do you want to be alone? We can take you to your room."

Mutely, he shook his head.

"Here," Joe said, and led them into the common room. "I'm going to find you something to drink."

Grace helped him with his coat and settled him on the couch. She sat beside him and took both his hands. "I'm so sorry, Duncan," she said with a fearless openness that made clear just how well she understood.

MacLeod shook his head. "Do you know how--? Of course you do. Everyone does." He took a deep breath. "How have you been? I haven't seen you--"

"It's been about a decade. I've been...all right."

She'd been all right. That was good. "Where?" he asked.

"The islands," she said. "I've been in practice again. Research is very productive, but very cold." She trailed off. "I have been happy lately, Mac. It's been good. I am so sorry to be here for you only now, when there is nothing left I can do."

"Oh, don't worry about that," he muttered bitterly. "I'm about to ask you for miracles."

Joe returned then. He was carrying a double scotch. It took MacLeod a moment to steady his hand around the glass. Grace was watching him pityingly. Joe looked on the verge of tears.

They had buried Connor. They had put him in the ground, near where Heather was buried. Or where they thought Heather was buried. It didn't matter, though. Connor wouldn't care. He was dead.

MacLeod drained the scotch.

Slowly, talking only in whispers, Immortals were filling the ground floor of the house. Some of them approached him and murmured a kind or pitying word.  Ceirdwyn planted a kiss on his brow. Carl leaned down to promise that, whatever happened, he would back MacLeod up. Distantly, MacLeod knew that Connor deserved a better wake than this. He should be standing up, telling stories about his cousin, reminding his friends why they'd loved him and showing the men and women who hadn't known him what they'd missed.

He didn't seem to have the energy to rouse himself.

Ceirdwyn joined Matthew just outside the door in the short hallway. They began a very quiet, urgent conversation. There was history there.  MacLeod hoped it was not the kind of history that ended in violence. Surely not. Joe and Methos would have had access to the guest list. The Valicourt teenager was sitting glumly in a corner picking at a plate of samosas and fried spinach. Wolfe was hovering close to Amanda, pretending not to be nervous about the crowd of Immortals. Derek and Michelle, looking very much like unhappy kids and not deadly warriors, were holding hands. Gina had pinned Joe down over by the window. He was the only mortal who'd come back to the house with them. From the scraps MacLeod could occasionally overhear, she was giving him a thorough and overly-personally grilling under the cover of disinterested small talk. Gina was charming and ruthless. Joe was holding his own. Methos moved slowly through the crowd, watching everything. About half the people crowded into the room were watching MacLeod. The other half were pointedly not watching him.

Amanda interrupted Gina's determined attempt to chip through Joe's pleasant evasions to offer Joe his guitar. Joe shook his head.

"Please," Amanda said.

His hand hovered. "You know, I left my room locked."

"And so did I! Are you going to nitpick now?"

He took the guitar. Amanda leaned down and kissed his cheek.

Joe started "Amazing Grace." The song about mercy. There had never been mercy for Immortals. MacLeod did not think he could survive hearing it again. Without thinking, he was on his feet. Joe, who had been watching him, stopped. "What?" he asked gently. It wasn't 'What is wrong with you?' it was 'What do you need to hear?'

"Pilgrim," MacLeod said.

Joe played "I'm just a Pilgrim."  Then he played "Stand by Me" and "Some Change." The Immortals spread throughout the kitchen, dining room, and front hall gravitated into the common room. Joe played "Wonderful World," which was better in Joe's hands than it had ever been in anyone else's. He played "Fox on the Run," and Methos laughed so hard he had to step into the hall. Amanda leaned over to MacLeod and whispered, "He's doing Manfred Mann covers now?" But MacLeod had no explanation for it. Joe ignored Methos' clowning and played "This is Me" and "Whippoorwill." Derek went to him, and after a whispered consultation, they sang "Oh Freedom," together.

When they were done, there was no applause, just respectful silence. Joe took the beer Methos handed him and looked over to see if MacLeod was ready. MacLeod was, although he still wasn't sure what he would say.

"You came. It means everything to me...It would have meant a great deal to Connor. He hated that it was so unsafe to have friends.  He longed for us to be a People, with customs and communities of our own." He took a deep breath. It was not as hard to speak of Connor as it had been. "He almost never spoke of it, though. Connor was very practical. And the Game kept us apart. Except, it turns out the Game is a lie, and there is no Prize."

"You said that before," Constantine said. "What did you mean?"

"I mean, there will always be more than one. Even if new Immortals stop appearing. There are dozens of Immortals, buried or incarcerated. Out of reach."

"They have a way of resurfacing," Constantine answered.

"Have you heard of Sanctuary?"

Constantine and Matthew both nodded, and Constantine said, "A monastery in Romania. A place where Immortals could go to withdraw from the Game, to sleep. But it's gone. It's been gone for seventy years."

"It was moved to the New World," Methos said. "Where it failed. One of us, hunting in a pack with automatic weapons and explosives, slaughtered almost everyone. In the future, Sanctuary will not be centralized."

"It's not just that," MacLeod said. "It isn't just that the game can't be won. It was a lie from the start. I know a man who was there when the myth was invented."

"That had to have been a hell of a long time ago," Gina protested. "Thousands of years."

MacLeod nodded.

"No!" Matthew said. "I can't believe it."

Carl laid a hand on his shoulder. "I do," he said gently. "I asked--" he broke off and glanced at MacLeod and then Joe.

MacLeod's mouth went dry. Carl had asked Reverend Bell, but he wasn't sure how much he could repeat. Well. MacLeod had known the Watchers would get dragged into it. He'd been sure it was necessary. And these were all people he trusted with his life, with the future of his people. 

There were so many ways this could go badly, though. MacLeod moved to stand beside Joe. "There are historians," he said carefully. "People--mortals--who know about us. Their records go back four thousand years."

"I asked Tom," Carl said. "There isn't much of the oldest records left, but the Game isn't mentioned."

Many of the Immortals present hadn't known about Watchers: Gina and Robert, Gregor, Cory, Michelle, Matthew. They seemed as shocked by how unsurprised everyone else looked as they were by the news.

"What do you mean by 'historians,' exactly?" Matthew asked. He was looking at Carl and Derek.

"He means we keep track of the Game," Joe said. He sounded completely calm. "Who wins, who loses. Who's a total psychopath we better pray doesn't win."

Matthew took a step toward him. "Mortals have been keeping track of the Game?"

Carl stepped in front of him. Carl was bigger. More important, Carl was Matthew's student, and they loved each other dearly.  "What? Did you think it was none of their business?" His tone was gently mocking. "I mean, given what the stakes were? It was their future we were fighting over, after all."

Constantine, who had found out about Watchers when his own had tried to kill him, said, "It makes sense, if you think about it.  How else could we have kept the secret so long, unless someone was helping us cover it up? And they keep our histories, when they would otherwise be lost to time. We leave so little trace of our passing...."

"Spies--" Matthew protested.

"You've met Thomas Bell.  He is no spy. He was Derek's friend before his first death. Now he keeps Derek's chronicle. And mine. And the point of this is, Tom says they don't have evidence that anyone was playing the Game until about three thousand years ago."

Silence.

Constantine, despite what he had said in favor of the Watchers, didn't look very benevolent. Gina had gone over to stand beside her son.  MacLeod knew from her letters that the boy knew about Immortals. Apparently, he understood enough about the current conversation to look astonished. Gregor looked angry. Cory looked angrier.

Matthew hesitated. "That isn't proof of anything. Their information can't be complete."

MacLeod took a deep breath, kept his eyes straight ahead. "I know a man older than the Game," he said. "He remembers when it was invented. He knows who did it."

"Oh, my god," Wolfe breathed.

"Duncan, do you know what you're saying?" Grace asked, staring at him.

"I hear what you're saying," Robert said, "But I don't know what we can do. It doesn't make any difference."

Louder than any of them, Matthew said, "Fine then. Show me this man who's older than the Game."

"Ah. That would be me," Methos said, from his spot from the door. "We haven't been properly been introduced. I'm Methos."

Joe and Amanda covered gracefully. Joe snapped--with convincing irritation-- "Don't start that again. I was there for your first death," and Amanda looked completely shocked, "Excuse me?" But both of their efforts went to waste because MacLeod, aghast, threw out his arms and bellowed "No!" Too late, he realized his mistake. Pale and panicked, MacLeod's face was completely damning. "Oh, no, no...." _Not this sacrifice. Not for me._

As though they were alone in the room--as though more than a dozen people were not staring at them in stunned silence--Methos came to MacLeod and took his arm in a warrior's grip. "This is my best chance, Mac," he whispered. "If no one is playing the Game then my quickening is of no use to anyone. You must succeed here."

He moved the chair Gina had vacated closer to Joe and sat MacLeod down. Omitting his own role, Methos repeated the story he had told over the Atlantic: the Great Lie and why it had been manufactured. The man who had come up with it and what he'd hoped to gain. What had become of him. He finished, "The Game was a fairy story. There never was a Prize. And now mortal society isn't so fragile that they need this kind of protection from us. It's time for it to stop."

It was Gregor who spoke first. "Not everyone will believe you." He laughed bitterly. "Not everyone will care."

Wolfe came forward. "MacLeod," he said loudly, "If you are trying to stop the Game, then I am with you. I don't care what it costs. I don't care if our chances of succeeding are one in a billion. Count me in."

" _Merde_. You cannot mean we are to give up our swords," Robert gasped.

"No! Of course not. You must--you must defend yourselves--" Without meaning to, MacLeod glanced at Methos. Dear god, Methos. In this company he was safe, but word would spread.  People would find it easier to believe in the existence of Methos than in the end of the Game. He would be a target. "You must defend yourselves. And I know...that we will still use violence to settle our differences. I can not see what else will settle things, for us. But how many of us have had to fight for our lives against hunters who were just trying to rack up heads?  And how many of us are out there now, panicked and desperate, fighting everyone they meet because they think they have no choice because there can be only One? That has to stop. We have to stop it."

"This is very difficult," Ceirdwyn said. "When I look back on the friends who have died--on the men I have killed, and all for a lie--"

"How do we do it?" Amanda asked. Her eyes were on Nick.

MacLeod shrugged. "We tell our friends. We tell the truth. We walk away from every challenge we can safely avoid."

"We commit," Carl said. "There's a lot of people who won't want to listen to this particular truth. It'll take us years."

"I'll give it years," Grace said, knotting her hand through his.

It was quiet chaos after that. Even Amanda, who had sort of seen it coming, seemed a bit thrown by the just how much the world had changed in one afternoon. Gregor, Ceirdwyn, and Robert promptly got drunk. On wine, since Methos, worried about high emotions and swords, had limited the amount of hard liquor available. They had to drink with considerable dedication, but no one complained. Meanwhile, McCormick, Wolfe, Gina, and Constantine closed on MacLeod. They wanted to talk about strategy and contact lists. Michelle and Cory started grilling Joe about Watchers. MacLeod would have worried, but Amanda planted herself at Joe's shoulder. She wouldn't let the others push too hard. Methos watched it all from the side. He seemed quite content. MacLeod tried not to think of the risk he was taking.

"As completely asinine as the Game is, not everyone will give it up," Wolfe said. "What do we do with the ones who won't?"

"You're asking if we force them to stop," MacLeod said. There was only one way to force an Immortal to change his behavior. "I won't hunt them down and slaughter them.  They have a right to a fair combat."

"You're looking at this the wrong way," Marcus Constantine said, sighing. "The way to stop fighting is to stop fighting, not to raise the stakes.  If the headhunters among us find that everyone they want to challenge runs the other way or finds a spot too public for a fight, eventually they'll give up."

"Or start taking desperate measures," Wolfe said. MacLeod was beginning to like him.

Constantine shrugged, "Then we'll have to consider a different approach."

"And how many will be killed before we decide," Gina said. "We need to settle on a response now. The Game has gone to hell this last decade. We've all heard about Xavier St. Cloud, hunting with a pack of mercenaries carrying machine guns. Or Jacob Kell. They are not the only examples. We have to be ready."

"More violence is not a solution," Constantine said sternly. He was used to having the final word. Gina continued to argue with him. She was also used to having the final word.

MacLeod closed his eyes. They had believed him. They had believed him. This part was just...tactics, plans. It might take days or weeks to work out the details. So what? Most Immortals weren't trying to rule the world. They were just trying to stay alive or live their current life in peace. For most of his people, knowledge would be enough. The stragglers Nick and Gina were so worried about would be a small minority.

And he knew in his heart that whatever options the others settled on, he would handle any problems he heard of himself. He didn't want to die for the Game, and he wouldn't kill for the Game, but to protect Gina or Marcus or Methos or Amanda--oh, yes, he would kill for that.  MacLeod smiled. He would die for that, if it came to it.

 _Oh, Connor. I couldn't save you, but I'll save all that I can. You will be the last_.

At some point in the evening, someone brought MacLeod a plate of cold lamb curry and dal. He ate with more appetite then he'd had in days.  Around him, the conversation shifted and shifted again, as groups split up and reformed. The first thing to do was obvious to all, and before long everyone was making a list. Well, two lists: One of the friends and respected acquaintances they could find immediately and a second of the ones they had lost touch with. Nick Wolfe didn't have enough Immortal friends to make a list. He just dug out his phone and made a call to Canada (Laura Finkelstein) and  two calls to Paris (Stephen Keane and Liam Riley). 

"Lovely," MacLeod muttered, half overhearing Nick's end.

Amanda patted his head. "Now, now, Darling."

"Keane's not a bad guy, when he's not trying to kill me. But Liam's an ass."

Amanda smirked. "Just because he doesn't like you doesn't make him an ass. And he's got a lot of influence over a very wide community. You should be grateful for his help."

MacLeod rolled his eyes, "I should be grateful for his help!" he mocked. It wasn't until he caught Amanda beaming at him that MacLeod realized he was smiling back.

Amanda leaned over to briefly kiss his cheek and then called across the room, "Hey, Joe. Any idea where Dex is now?" She held up her list.

Joe, who had been at the window watching a cold drizzle flicker in the streetlights, turned around slowly. "What? You think I have it all memorized? Last I heard he was in Argentina."

By the time he had finished answering, a silence had rippled out to cover the room. Joe looked back at the watching Immortals calmly. Perhaps he had been ready for this moment. The Watchers had to be convinced that the Game was unwinnable, or else there would be war. The best way to convince them of that was to make the Game over. It still wouldn't be easy, though, to get the rank and file to accept such deep changes. Or the hierarchy. For thousands of years, Watchers had kept records and stayed out of Immortal business.  Joe would put tradition aside because it was the best bet to keep people alive, but he didn't like it. It would change everything.  And he would surely face resistance from his people, too.

Of course, things would have to change anyway.  The secret of the Watchers was out. People would be looking for their chroniclers, checking for that figure in the shadows.   The detailed, personal information that had been accessible before would be carefully protected now. And, anyway, if the Immortals weren't doomed to disappear...maybe there wasn't any need for such detailed histories.

There would be a lot more Immortals to keep track of, if they stopped killing each other off in such large numbers....

Constantine rose half out of his chair and froze, his eyes on Joe. "Can you tell me--" he broke off and looked away.

"Holy Tara of the Small Waterfall Shrine?" Joe asked softly. "She's alive. She's in Cornwall, actually, working in a day care. Give me your lists. I'll arrange for messages to be sent, letting them know how to reach you. If they want to. I think--" Here Joe glanced at MacLeod-- "I think that's fair."

Marcus Constantine had to leave the room.

MacLeod studied the faces around him. His beginnings of his army--although that was probably a grossly inappropriate metaphor.

Wolfe was so eager he was pacing. MacLeod could understand his feelings. It was all he could do to keep himself from running up and down the street screaming that the Game was over.

Grace, deep in conversation with Gregor, waved MacLeod over. "We must prioritize clergy and psychologists," she said. She had Gregor's hand captured between two of her small ones. "This is going to be very difficult."

Gregor was more than halfway drunk, and he'd been weeping a little. "I never hunted..." Gregor whispered sadly. "Never, but... Oh, Mac. There must be thousands--thousands--of us who have."

"Clergy," MacLeod whispered. So many were dead. Darius. Kimir. Coltec. He laid a hand on Gregor's shoulder. Everything was going to change. It would be very difficult.

"Your friend--your Watcher? Will he help us?" Grace asked.

"I think so," MacLeod took a deep breath. "I'll talk to him. Father Liam is coming. He will be here by noon tomorrow."  Suddenly, having Liam Riley around didn't seem so awful.

"That will help," she said, looking sadly around the room. "Most of us will not hear the news so calmly as the people in this room."

As he turned away from Grace and Gregor, MacLeod saw Derek and Michelle, hand in hand, slip from the room. It required no great leap to guess where they were going. Or with what objective.

In the dining room MacLeod found Joe and Carl. They looked a little silly--two large, solemn, rugged men surrounded by pink lace table cloths, teddy bears, and the hostess's Bunnykins collection. They had found something stronger than wine and were tucking in with a will. MacLeod left them alone.

 

Gina, her husband and son in tow, found him in the hall and paused to say goodnight. "We've been up since five, but we'll be back tomorrow." She kissed him on the cheek and handed him a scrap of paper with the phone number of her hotel written on it. Glancing over MacLeod's shoulder, she added softly, "It's really him, isn't it?"

MacLeod half turned. Methos was standing in the shadows by the stairs. "Yes," he sighed.

"And you knew that when you enlisted him to--to--?"

"Attack your husband and scare ten years' growth out of you?" MacLeod shrugged helplessly. "Er. He was handy?"

When the Valicourts were out the door he turned and went to Methos.

"Don't start, MacLeod," Methos chanted gently.

He had been assuming that when things heated up Methos would withdraw. He had been hoping that Methos would withdraw. He had explicitly told him it would be all right to leave. And instead-- "You shouldn't have done this. I can't believe you did this--"

"You have to succeed."

"Methos--"

"Pay attention, MacLeod. It's not very complicated. You have to succeed. My survival. Your survival. Everyone's survival depends on you. Ending the Game. Now. Your chances are better if it's Methos beside you and not Reg or Adam or Ben. Don't insult us both by pretending you don't know that."

"I--I want you to live."  It was a new pain, this raw fear for Methos.

"Then we had better be damn sure you succeed." He kissed MacLeod firmly on the lips and brushed past him on the way to the dining room.

The downstairs of the guesthouse wasn't all that big. There were only three rooms open to the public. It was the work of a moment to collar Matthew and Nick Wolfe and herd them into the kitchen. It was empty except for the dirty take-out platters scattered across the antique stove and the small table. "I'm going to need your help," he said

"Name it," Wolfe said promptly. Matthew just nodded, watching MacLeod with sharp eyes.

MacLeod stumbled at the start. "Adam--Reggie--"

"Methos," Wolfe corrected.

Mutely, MacLeod nodded. "M-Methos. You cannot imagine what kind of danger he has put himself in."

"If it's true," Matthew said carefully. "I'd heard that Methos was dead. But then, I'd also heard he was a myth.

"It's true," MacLeod said sadly. "I have it from people old enough to know. And Amanda had it from Rebecca."

"You want us to protect him," Wolfe said.

"What I want is for him not to have done this. I can't--I can't protect him alone. Joe is armed. And he is ruthless. But he's mortal--"

Wolfe shrugged. "The body guard thing? Not a problem."

"I was considering a career change anyway," Matthew said.  "I will call in my resignation--just as soon as I am completely sober."

"I don't know...Him all that well," Wolfe said. "But I don't think he's going to want to go along."

MacLeod felt himself grow hard inside.  Methos had been running the show for the last week. MacLeod had gone along. There probably was an argument coming up, and MacLeod--out of practice or not--could not afford to lose. "You let me worry about that. He'll do whatever is necessary to stay alive. I expect it will be enough to make sure he is never alone."

"No," Wolfe said. "Bodyguarding an Immortal won't be like protecting someone else. Anyone can put a bomb under the car, disable the Immortals with him, and poof! take what they want from the fallout. No unwanted collateral damage, and the victims help you conceal the crime."

Matthew shook his head. "No. Very few Immortals who believe in the game cheat at the game. And if someone comes after Methos, he will come alone, because there is no way to share." MacLeod's skin was crawling at this coolly professional discussion of Methos' life, but he had to admit that even drunk, Matthew McCormick was very sharp. "Besides...It wouldn't be easy to walk away from a quickening that old. Recovery will take time. The oldest I've ever...encountered was just twenty-five hundred, and I think it physically killed me. A lot of Immortals couldn't come away from Methos with their sanity intact."

Wolfe looked hard at Matthew, then turned to MacLeod. "They won't get away at all. I promise you. Nobody who even tries it will get away. You just concentrate on your end of things. The sooner you get--converts, or whatever--to your side, the less Matthew and I will have to worry about."

"Does he have any enemies?" Matthew asked suddenly. At MacLeod's frozen look, he said, "We'll need descriptions."

MacLeod promised them everything they needed and left them to their discussion. They were both experienced professionals, and between them they had the long view and the contemporary perspective covered.  He would have to trust them to do their jobs--

He would keep Methos within arm's reach.

He went back to the living room. The gathering had reached the stage where they were saying the same things over again. The shock was still sinking in. Some were taking it better than others. Gregor still looked like hell, but Ceirdwyn had sobered up and was sitting beside Constantine, both of them involved in the editing of a single, very long list. Cory was sitting in a corner by himself, tossing a dagger end over end and catching it by the tip. He didn't look good. Methos, looking patient and good-natured was speaking to Grace. Or rather, judging from the body language, answering questions for her.

It was just possible that they all might survive.

As the sadness rose up from his heart, MacLeod closed his eyes. _Oh, Connor. It's too late. I'm sorry_.  

Too late for Connor. But Duncan would save all he could.  

Around midnight, those with hotel rooms in town began to leave. Carl was sloshed, but Grace could drive. The businessmen had left, freeing up two of the rooms. Matthew took one. Ceirdwyn and Constantine, who hadn't planned on spending the night in Scotland, took the other.

Joe went off to bed, looking a little the worse for wear but not too bad, considering he'd spent several hours drinking with an Immortal.  MacLeod was wondering if he should follow to say 'good night' when a thump and raised voices sent him racing up the stairs. "What is the matter with you?" he hissed, "There are other guests sleeping!" He figured that whatever was going on, this was a safe start.

Nick Wolfe was standing in the doorway of the room Cory shared with Derek. Derek was nowhere in sight, but Cory was sitting in the floor, rubbing his jaw. "He's walking out on us," Nick spat. He kept his voice down, though.

"Let him go," Mac said. At the same time, Cory said, "I didn't realize you'd gotten so attached."

"You worthless son of a bitch," Nick started into the room. MacLeod caught him by the belt and hauled him back.

"We don't need him. What we're about to do is dangerous. He has a right to refuse. Let him--"

"What we're doing is important! You gutless pile of shit--"

Cory rolled his eyes as he stood up. "You great puppy," he muttered, clearly unimpressed.

Nick dove for him. MacLeod hauled him bodily across the hall into the room Nick and Amanda shared. "He's not worth getting thrown out over.  Let him go. He won't be much help anyway."

"What's going on?" Amanda's voice, mercifully quiet.

Relieved, MacLeod retreated into his own room. "Make them behave," he said. As he shut the door behind him, it occurred to him that Immortals didn't generally play well in groups, and he had just committed himself to years--decades?--of shepherding them.

 _Damn you, Connor, for making me do this alone_. But he brushed away the tears and sat down at the room's phone. It was still early evening in the States. He could start calling friends now. Some of them might be here as early as tomorrow night.

He took out his address book and calling card.

 ~TBC


	7. Day 7: Thaw

**December 21**

**17:15 GMT**

Feeling a little like a tourist, Marian Bell looked around.  A genuine English pub.  Her first genuine English pub, unless, since it was in Scotland, it didn't count.

She wondered if pubs in England were different.

Elizabeth and Amy were both English. Or at least British. She could ask them. She didn't.  Polite chatter would only make things worse. Elizabeth was already jumping out of her skin. Her left hand played restlessly with an unopened cigarette pack. Her eyes looked everywhere but at Amy and Marian.

Marian leaned slightly forward and confided seriously, "Girls, I think it's time to order a beer."

Amy looked a little prim. In the past few days Marian had gotten to know her well enough to see that this meant she was worried. "We're on duty," she said.

Elizabeth waved Amy to hush. "That's a wonderful idea. But aren't you Baptist?"

Marian smiled. "Oh, yes. But I think we have more serious problems than that."

Elizabeth laughed uneasily, fussed with her cigarettes again. Amy gently trapped the errant hand. "Please don't," she said. Elizabeth made a point of looking glacially calm.

Marian hadn't been a Watcher much longer than either of them. Although she was older, it wasn't professional experience that settled her serenely in her chair. And--oh, no--It certainly wasn't confidence. Raised by parents who had been convinced that education was the solution to all problems, she had grown up expecting to be a teacher. Being a pastor's wife hadn't been so different. But that hadn't prepared her to be a Watcher. The deception, the violence, the slow, un-repented genocide.

And the history. The centuries of wisdom that lay just out of reach. She hadn't been prepared. She'd had to adapt.

But even on days like this, when it was so patently obvious that her adaptation was barely adequate, she was polite and apparently even-tempered. Marian had never learned to panic and fuss. The first step in solving a problem was to be civil and gracious. Sometimes being charming was even the first weapon in your arsenal. Now, with everything changing, with so many lives in the balance, Marian was clinging to her grace as tightly as she could. "All right then. I've heard of 'pub food.' We should have some. With the beer." She reached into her purse for her wallet. All of the prices were in both Euros and Pounds and the math was complex enough to be amusing. "Elizabeth, I leave it to you--"

Just then, Tom walked briskly back to the table, still putting his cell phone away.

"Well," Amy asked, caught between eagerness and anxiety, "What did he say?"

"Miles says the council still isn't convinced, but we have permission to go ahead with the first item. Call it a test run."

"Oh," Marian said. "Well. My." The first item on the list was the Kiem Sun problem. The situation was very serious, and if the Watchers were going to move at all they had to do it now or explain why they had waited later.

"Miles will be here tomorrow," Tom added.

Amy sighed extravagantly. "Well, good! And better him than me."

 

**20:46 GMT**

Duncan MacLeod was a reasonable, competent, thorough man. Carl had to admit that if anybody could end the game, it was probably him. On the other hand...MacLeod had a look in his eyes that Carl hadn't seen since the day they'd met. Desperate. Fearless. Hell-bent on a rescue. It wasn't the look of a man who was _thinking_.

The man who claimed to be Methos--well, he probably was Methos. Mac sure thought so. But he might not be sane. Not someone to ask about details and options. Most of the others were as new to MacLeod's idea as Carl was himself. And most of them were an unknown quantity.

Dawson wasn't. MacLeod's Watcher nodded at Carl's approach. "Got a minute? I've got some questions. You might not want to answer them...." 'Might' was putting it lightly. Carl was about to ask questions Tom would never answer.

"I've got all night. But let's go some place a little quieter."

The bed and breakfast had a little dining room. Dawson motioned Carl to wait and then ducked out only to return a moment later with a small bottle of scotch and two coffee mugs. "Sit," he said. "Ask."

"Your people cooperating on this...quest? or are you out in the cold?"

The answer was a surprise. "In," Dawson said. "We don't have a choice. The Game is tearing us apart, too, now. It has to end."

"Hunters."

"It's not quite that bad. Not at the moment. But it's bound to happen again."

Carl nodded slowly. "So. The deal is, we find every Immortal in the world and spread the word: the Game has been called on account of rain."

"Something like that," Dawson sighed.

"How many of us are there?"

"That, my friend, is a very complicated question. There are eleven thousand Immortals on our active roles. Right at this moment, we could probably pull a current address on about seven thousand. Of course, there might be just as many out there that we haven't identified."

"That can't-that can't be right. I've been in cities-- _small_ cities--with four and five other immortals right there, at the same time." Carl did the math in his head. He did it again. The numbers were rough, but they were off by a couple of zeros. "There has to be more."

Dawson looked him over, refilled his glass. "Well," he said, "It's complicated. First of all, it turns out that Immortals have a funny scatter. You clump."

"We clump," he repeated, feeling a little bemused.

"You clump. Paris. Egypt. Both coasts of the United States--all very popular spots. But you know what? You don't find Immortals in Indiana. Seriously. We have never recorded an Immortal spending more than twenty-four hours in Indiana voluntarily."

Carl laughed. Dawson didn't. And he wasn't finished.

"Mississippi is crowded with them. You.  Arkansas--nada. Most of Tennessee is okay, but they won't set foot in Chattanooga. Finland. Brunei. Southern Burma. All zip, we don't know why, but there it is. You cluster. Where there's one, there's usually several. But some places, none at all. For hundreds of years."

"Damn."

"Yep."

As an experiment, Carl thought about going to Finland. It didn't sound appealing, really, but he couldn't see any reason why he couldn't. "Why?" he asked.

"No idea."

"So that's why there's so few of us and we find each other anyway. We clump."

Dawson shrugged. "That and shit happens."

Carl chewed on that in the following silence. "What particular shit do you mean?"

For almost a minute, Dawson stared at the table. Carl thought he might have gone too far, but just as he was giving up, Dawson said, "South America used to be big on human sacrifice."

"Yeah, I've heard. Also cannibalism, right?" His stomach clinching, Carl had a sudden vision of Immortals being ceremonially killed and then dismembered for the cook pot. "Damn."

"No, it's worse than that. Some of the gods had a thing for...decapitation. They had special classes of priests to do it. Very _rare_ priests.  On special holidays, the sacrifice would bring on lightening storms and the god would bless the priest by striking him with lightening."

Carl couldn't think of anything to say to that. He felt a little ill.

"The victims would be war captives or slaves given in tribute. Sometimes...the priests would lead raiding parties into enemy territory to kidnap new--special--victims. We're pretty sure that after a while they ran so low on Immortals that they were kidnapping pre-immortals and killing them so they could be used as sacrifices. They went south to the sea. And north into Canada."

"What happened to them?" Carl asked. "The priests?"

"The Spanish." Dawson drew a finger across his neck. "By 1750, the number of native Immortals in the New World over the age of four hundred could be counted on one hand."

Carl felt sick, but Dawson wasn't finished. "New Guinea isn't big on Immortals, either. Until the middle of this century, it was full of head hunters. Tends to limit the population."

"Damn."   


"Ever hear of the Kurgan?"

"Maybe. Big guy? Headhunter?"

Dawson nodded. He slumped a little in the chair. "That's him. He went to Australia in 1802. He spent fifty years there, in the interior. He was hunting the locals. They lived in tiny groups...far apart. He only got about two quickenings a year. Some years, probably not that."

"You had a man on him?" the idea was a little appalling.

"For a couple of years. Then he stopped meeting his contact. Just disappeared. Well, hell, it was the Australian desert, right? Maybe he got lost. Maybe kangaroos ate him. Speculation is, though, that he decided to...interfere, you know?  Those Aboriginal Immortals--they weren't playing the Game. They'd never even seen a sword. How cold would you have to be to just watch that?"

How cold would you have to be to do it? "So he cleaned out Australia?"

"Any he missed were taken care of by a Japanese character named Wakana. He came to Australia in 1870 after spending a decade going through Indonesia like a hot knife through butter."

By now, Carl had passed to something beyond horror. "Are they still out there? The Kurgan? And this Wakana?"

"Nope." Dawson picked up the small bottle, but they had emptied it.

"What happened?"

"Connor MacLeod," Dawson said. "Connor MacLeod met Wakana in 1928 and the Kurgan in 1985."

"And Mac actually beat this guy!"

"Oh, no," Dawson said miserably. "He didn't."

"Tom said--"

"Duncan did not beat him. He only killed him. Connor had balance and inertia...."

And now they had no Connor MacLeod. "I had no idea." Over the years Tom had said almost nothing about the other Immortals in the world. In the last few days, he had only said the bear minimum about Connor MacLeod.

"And now you've got to find seven to eleven _thousand_ Immortals hiding all over the world --In addition to the ones we know about--and convince them to stop killing each other."

"Damn."

"Yup."

 

**23:10 GMT**

Michelle stretched and sighed happily. This was the best part about being Immortal. No germs. No babies. No worrying about wrinkles. And no going to cellulite, not while she was doing sword drills every day.

Derek traced one strong hand languidly along her thigh. "So what's it like there?" he asked. "Canada?"

"Cold. Polite. Good restaurants."

"The colleges any good? No, I shouldn't ask that. Carl keeps saying I have to take the long view. Get an education. Stay focused." He sighed. "There'll be time to be together later. Maybe....maybe lots and lots of time."

"Lots of time?" Michelle repeated blankly.

"If MacLeod can stop the game....maybe we'll have forever."

Appalled, Michelle snuck a glance at his face. He was considering forever with her. "I'm not ready to settle down!" she protested, trying to be kind, already envisioning the fight that was about to erupt.

"Yeah, that's what I've been saying. But it's tempting, you know. To try for a normal life."

"Oh, normal. That's a winner," she said sourly.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Never mind." She said quickly. "We have forever to think about it, right? You ready to go again?"

 

 

**00: 23  GMT  December 22, 2002**

Most everyone was gone or tucked in their rooms. The house seemed quiet enough, but Amanda returned to the ground floor to check the doors and windows anyway. There was no point in making things too easy.

Methos was in the common room, gathering up empty wine bottles and used paper plates. The sight made Amanda pause with surprise. She didn't consider him either domestic or conscientious.

He looked up enquiringly, and Amanda said, by way of conversation, "Cory just jumped ship."

Methos shrugged. "Like all good rats."

"Cory's not a rat. And besides, we're not sinking."  She waited, but Methos didn't argue that. "Anyway, we could have used him. He's intelligent and creative."

"He's self-centered--"

"Look who's talking!" Amanda laughed.

"And reckless," Methos said pointedly, rolling his eyes. "Besides, at least I'm intelligent enough to know where my interests actually lie."

Amanda thought about trying to convince Dex that the Game was just something someone made up. Or Korda. Or Kalas **.**   "Think it'll work?" she asked.

"You had damn well better hope so," he grunted.

Amanda couldn't argue with that, so she changed the subject. "How's Joe?"

Methos glanced at her sharply, covered unhappiness with irritation, and snapped, "It's not like you to be crude, Amanda."

She knew him well enough to see the anxiety below the flip answer, but not well enough to see what it was attached to. Surely Methos and Joe had not had time to quarrel already. So it must be something else. "Okay, so seriously," she said, looking concerned for good measure. "You've been hovering. Is anything wrong?"

"Why would you think anything would be wrong?" Viciously, he bundled the mouth of the garbage bag into two tails and knotted them shut. "He's crossed the Atlantic twice in less than three weeks. He's been skipping meals. He's been under tremendous stress. He hasn't had anything approaching a day off. And as easy as he makes getting around look, I promise you, it is not."  He wasn't loud, but the force of the answer nearly made Amanda flinch.

Amanda didn't fall for it. She sighed theatrically and said, "Oh, really. He's not that old. Or that fragile. And he's handling the stress better than you are."

"He won't argue with me," Methos mumbled.

Amanda frowned. "What?"

"He won't argue with me." This time he was pointedly overly distinct.

"I heard you. What the hell does that mean?"

"He won't argue with me. I have moved beyond reasonable. I am harassing him mercilessly.  I cannot possibly be more obnoxious. And he will not argue with me."  In his eyes she could see traces of a corrosive anxiety. The old pain in the ass was definitely upset. And since he wasn't given to baseless panic, she supposed she had to take him seriously.

"And you are thinking--what? He's too worried? Too exhausted? Methos--"

"I think it is being here, with us," he whispered. "I cannot imagine what it--how awful it must be for him, surrounded by us."

"Well, _you,_ I can understand. But Joe likes _me_."

He would not snap back at her. "We do not get any older. For us, pain lasts only _minutes_. If--when--MacLeod wins this gambit, we may all live for thousands of years. He must feel...."

Amanda snorted. "Relieved!"

"What?" He had gone from earnest to outraged in a single moment.

"I think he looks at us, and he feels relieved. I think he looks at us...and thanks God that he's not one of us.  He won't have to carry his memories as long was we will have to carry ours. He will never have to look back on the Game. He'll never have anyone hunt him just to harvest his quickening--'sorry, nothing personal you understand, you just have to die now!'" Amanda reined in her own bitterness. "Joe doesn't have any romantic fantasies about eternal life. He _knows_ what Immortality means. My god, can you imagine what would have happened if he'd been one of us? Joe would have been an even bigger disaster than Nick was--"

As hard as it was to imagine, that was probably true. And, really, Amanda did not think she could have faced that nightmare again.  The day he'd died for the first time Nick had stormed out on her. He'd taken the car and left her behind to hot-wire Peyton's car. Amanda had thought ahead. She'd warned Liam, and when Nick had gotten home Liam had been waiting.

It hadn't helped. Liam had refused to repeat what Nick had said to him, except that it was all in anger. Liam, being Liam, hadn't done the sensible thing and forcibly restrained Nick. Say, bashed him over the head with a lead pipe and tied him up or something similarly useful. By the time Amanda got to the club, Nick had grabbed a few things and gone.

She had searched for him for the next eight months. To no success. Later, she learned he'd planted himself in a monastery in Greece. On an island. Where they didn't let women go anyway. He'd been determined to take himself out of the Game, no matter how extreme or stupid--and, in the end, fruitless--the plan was. When it finally became clear that becoming a monk wasn't going to work, Nick had flown back to Canada. He'd shown up at Lucy's in the middle of the night, raging about how his destiny had turned out.

Lucy, bless her heart, had tried to defend what Amanda had done. Nick had just laughed at her. "Lied? Who cared that she lied? She always lied! I could live with that! Did she fuck up the whole 'first death thing?' Hell, yes! But even if she'd done everything right--even if she had given me a choice--I still might be Immortal. I didn't want to die! I might have _chosen_ this!" And that, apparently, had been the real problem. Not what Amanda had done, but the fact that he was Immortal. Nick had believed in the Game. He knew that immortality made it much more likely that he might live long enough to watch Amanda die. Worse, if, impossibly, the two of them somehow made it to the end, then they would have to fight each other, so trying to survive was a dubious choice. _Worse still_ , what if--when the Gathering came--Immortals suddenly fell on each other like dogs in a pit? What if he turned on Amanda, driven by some impossible instinct or madness? What if they fought one another? There could be only one.

That night at Lucy's, Nick drank himself into alcohol poisoning and died. The next morning, he thanked Lucy, apologized, and caught a plane out of town. He was gone three hours before Amanda's own plane landed.

She spent the next six months searching. Nick, having given up on a cloistered life, had gone a little crazy. He was working for Myers again, but Bert was under strict instructions not to tell Amanda or anyone else where to find him. Inconveniently, Bert also knew Amanda's best tricks and managed to keep his system out of her reach. So Amanda alternately tried to track Nick through private investigators and breaking into Bert's files. A couple of times she got close, but she was never quite close enough. A day behind, a week behind....

In the end, Amanda didn't break Bert's security or find Nick on her own. Eventually, Bert came to her. He was worried about Nick, who was volunteering for dangerous assignments, refusing to make use of back-up or support, taking ridiculous chances.... just generally, he was walking trouble and his luck couldn't possibly hold out. From the files Bert showed her, Amanda had guessed that Nick must have died nearly a dozen times over the course of a few months.

With the help of Methos and Joe she had managed to corner him, and once cornered, Nick, exhausted and hopeless, had given in. He would go back to Paris. He would try acting like a reasonable human being again. He would learn to defend himself with a sword.

He had tried, but he had not been the same since coming home. Amanda knew it was no use wishing she had done things differently. If only he had only had time to be properly prepared before dying. If only he had lived out a long, happy, natural life. If only he had not known of Immortality at all when he died. If only he had not already loved her when he learned how it all must someday end.... But no changed circumstances would alter the fact that it was the uncompromising fact of the Game that Nick found unbearable.

"Joe is quite happy, not being one of us," she said softly. "Believe me. If something's wrong, it's not that he's grown bitter with envy." She took a deep breath. "If you're worried about him, turn the problem over to MacLeod. He's more tactful than you are. Also, better looking. And smarter."

Methos flipped her off in the idioms of Great Brittan, Italy, and, for good measure, China. Then, with great dignity, he took his garbage bag and left.

"You too," Amanda called after him.

She turned off the lights and headed upstairs. Cory was headed down with his suit case. He paused on the landing. "Amanda--"

"I wish you'd stay. It's going to be a glorious adventure," she said.

He smiled the sweet, innocent smile that always melted her heart. "Doll Face, with you along, it might just be that grand."

He kissed her cheek and was gone.

 In the room, Nick was sitting on the bed, three items laid out beside him on the neat, pale yellow bedspread: His sword, his gun, and a small velvet box. "I guess you heard," he said.  


"Heard what?"

"I just took a job. We're babysitting Reggie. Methos, I mean."

"We?" MacLeod hadn't said anything to her.

"Right now, me and McCormick. Want in?"

"You have to ask?" It would be wonderful fun, harassing Methos at MacLeod's _request_. It did seem strange that Mac hadn't mentioned it. Or maybe not: he really didn't know how she'd spent the last few years. She'd become quite the (mostly legitimate) professional while he'd been locked away on holy ground. She peeled off her shirt and tossed it into the suitcase, thinking of a shower.

Looking after Methos would be lots more fun than babysitting socialites and stuffy politicians.

Nick appeared in front of her, holding the small box before her eyes.  "For me?" she asked playfully. "It's not my birthday."  But she opened the box.

Inside was a ruby ring. The stone was large, but not gaudy. Expensive cut. She did some math, tried to convert to euros...."You take up a life of crime when I wasn't looking?" she laughed. She gave up the euros and went back to dollars. About twenty thousand of them. "Not bad for a first job. I’m impressed."

"You asked where the money went from the Durant finder's fee last year."

"You said you invested it." The ring was really quite pretty. Sparkly. Really, she needed better light. The color of rubies--

"Marry me, Amanda."

Blinking, she looked up. "Excuse me."

"Let's get married."

"You want to get married."

"It's an engagement ring," he said. His eyes laughed at her. He was as happy as she had ever seen him. "I know it's not a diamond. You have enough of them." He paused, "You have this thing about commitment. I know you've had some bad experiences in the past, but I'm not asking for forever. Just three or four hundred years or so. We could--you know--have a sort of term contract and renew it every once in a while."

Amanda closed her eyes.  She had gotten used to the Nick who believed that it was all going to end badly and soon. Three or four hundred years. Married.

" _Think_ about it. Just think about it. We wouldn't have to be exclusive. I know it's different for--for us. But we're _good_ together, Amanda. I love you. Marry me."

The little box with its bright engagement ring blurred in her hands. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I'll marry you!"

 

**01:07 GMT**

Joe hadn't gone to bed at once. He'd sat for a while at the charming little fold-out desk making the calls that just could not wait for morning and glancing through the lists the departing guests had handed him before heading out into the cold night.  Some of the lists were quite long. Grace's was on the small, neat pages of a personal scheduler. Amanda's was written on a napkin. Both sides. Looking through the names (while listening to reports over his cell) he had made notes in the margins: this one he didn't recognize, that one was in the database under a different indexing name...some of them were dead.

Eventually, though, the cold seeping through his skin reminded him how late it was. Sighing, he'd shut down the phone, locked the precious scraps of paper in his brief case, and gotten ready for bed.

A soft scratching that was nothing like the firm sound of a key came from the door. In the dimness Joe could just barely see the lock turning. Well crap. There was no hope that this was, for example, just Amanda stopping by to say hello. She would be much faster and smoother about it.  In a cold sweat, he reached down for the gun that was secreted under the bed. When the door opened, he was already aiming at the aperture.

The figure made a good target. Less than a dozen feet away and backlit by the dim hall light, Joe could not possibly have missed. He could also not mistake the silhouette of his Highlander for anyone else on the planet. "God damn it!" Joe snarled, leaning back down to slide the gun under the duster. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Sorry, Joe," MacLeod said. He sounded more amused than sheepish. "But if we needed to protect you from shocks, I'm sure I would have heard all about it." He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him with his elbow. Joe squinted in the dimness, trying to see what MacLeod was carrying in his hands. 

He identified a tall glass and a hot water bottle. "Damn it. He got to you, too."

"Methos? Yes. At length. Sit up and drink this."

"Water, I assume," he grumbled, sitting up. Water to prevent a hangover. As though Joe couldn't cope with a little headache. He took the water. He drank. "It's below the belt, sending you, you know," he said during a pause to breathe. "I can't respect that kind of cowardice." He reconsidered. Circumstances aside, he did need to talk to Mac. As unpleasant as this conversation was going to be, it was necessary.  "I’m starting to worry about him."

"Who?" and then "Methos? Why?"

Joe set the empty glass on the night table. He sighed. "As good as he is at dealing with change...and to him, you know, it's all change, all the time...As good as he is at adapting and living in the moment, I think I know what it means to him to have someone like me in his life. Fifteen, twenty years isn't a long time. It's not that _much_ stability.  But I know his name.  He doesn't have to keep up with his lies with me or worry about a threat coming from my direction. And I can kind of guess what that means to him. I understand. But what he's doing now, it's just not healthy, Mac. And it's not going to work. No matter what I eat or how much sleep I get or how careful he is...."

"Joe--"

"I remember how he was after Alexa. It's going to be worse after me. He's had me longer. I know him better than she did. A _lot_ better. And this frantic denial he's in--it's only going to make it harder. In the long run, nothing he feeds me is going to make any difference. There is nothing he can do that will make me Immortal."

MacLeod sighed. "It's not the long run he's worried about. It's now. Although you're right about him being frantic. And you are not helping, by the way."

"Me? What the hell have I done?"

"Apparently, you are driving him to distraction. He is at his wits' end. Apparently."

"Now wait just a minute!" Joe protested. "I am cooperating!"  Annoyed, he flopped back onto the pillow. He had _tried_ \--

"Yes, and you're frightening him very badly. Roll over."

"What do you mean, I'm frightening him?" Joe rolled over.

MacLeod fussed with the sheet, laid the hot water bottle on Joe's lower back. "It's pretty complicated. But as near as I can figure, he's upset because you're eating everything he's giving you, and you're not complaining."

Joe had really thought he hadn't had _that_ much to drink, but this wasn't making any sense. "Want to run that by me again?"

MacLeod sighed. "Well...apparently, you were supposed to tell him where to shove it. And then you two were supposed to have a fight about regular meals and not eating 'poisonous garbage.' And then you were supposed to come to a compromise that cut out fast food and junk food but did include coffee and whatever kind of bread you liked. Or whatever. Only you won't play, no matter how outrageous he gets. He thinks you are depressed. Or close to a breakdown...or that something worse is wrong."

 _Oh, fuck_ , he thought as the picture of things sank in. Methos got him again. "I thought he was serious."

Gently, MacLeod patted Joe between the shoulders. "Oh no, he is serious. You've been under tremendous stress and a grueling schedule for weeks now. He's very worried. I have spent the last half hour being told, in great detail, why this must not go on. And I agree--"

Horrified, embarrassed, Joe lifted onto his elbows, dislodging the water bottle.  "I won’t slow you down, Mac."

He did not expect the short laugh. "Slow me down? How fast do you think I'm going? Joe, this is...this is huge, what we're doing. The potential here for disaster...we can't afford to move too quickly.  We have to be very careful."

"All right," Joe said, not sure he understood.

"We aren't in a hurry."  MacLeod took a deep breath. "I've been thinking--Well, no, I haven't."

"What?" Joe asked, hoping it might make more sense a second time. He turned his head, trying to look over his shoulder, but it was too dark to make out Mac's expression.

"I haven't been thinking." As though this clarified things. "I've just...been assuming. I've been assuming that to do this...I'd need you and Methos and Amanda and...and I've been assuming that you would _be_ there." He gave an unhappy, sideways shrug. "I need you to be there."

Oh, hell. Joe let himself drop back onto the pillow. MacLeod adjusted the hot water bottle again and then began to stroke Joe's hair. "You have always been the voice of sanity in this. Not just for Them. For me, Joe. I need you."

"Mac, I'm fine--"

MacLeod leaned down to whisper in Joe's ear. The weight of his chest was warm against Joe's back. "I know. I know."

"No, really--"

"You're having this argument with the wrong person." The gruff words were belied by the careful hug that accompanied them. "Tomorrow you will stop fucking with Methos' head and tell him where he can put his oatcakes and tea. He was _trying_ to give you an outlet for stress. It was very thoughtful, and you are going to be polite and take advantage of it. Hmmm? Give him hell."

"Okay." Joe had to smile at that. If it had occurred to him that cooperation would drive the old man crazy, he would have done it on purpose.

"And then we're going to take a couple of days and rest and talk. We need to think things out. There's a holiday coming, anyway. What can we get done with the Western world tied up in Christmas? There's no need to rush off in all directions, and we're not going to do it."

The hot water bottle on his back felt very good. The hand tangled in his hair felt better. He had known--who would know better?--that Duncan MacLeod was capable of this kind of gentleness, but he had never expected to see it directed at him. Joe could easily picture just how inconvenient it would be. Best to stop it now. "Mac, I don't want to be...looked after."

He expected an argument or a denial. Instead, Mac sighed. "Everything's changed. We're all going to have  to...." He trailed off, changing thoughts again. Joe wondered if he should worry about this lack of focus. "I don't think Methos is going to like having body guards, either. But we're all stuck now. What I've done has put you both in untenable positions. And you won't abandon me. And I can't....You are both so precious." He took a deep breath. "We are all going to make the best of it. We will try to give one another space. And we will not waste time worrying. And you...."

Oh, hell. MacLeod was close to tears again. Brokenhearted and all but gutted with grief, and still the man was trying to change the world. What he really needed this time was a decade or two of quiet, with no violence or hard decisions and just friends now and then to comfort him a little.

Well, it wasn’t going to happen. _We are all going to make the best of it._ He could do that. Joe forced himself to chuckle. "You've got body guards on Methos."

"He doesn't know about that yet." Joe could hear the fragile smile.

"Who did you get?"

"Matthew and Nick are both professionals...."

This time the laugh was completely spontaneous. "You've got Nick to--Well, of course you have. He'll be good, too. Brilliant. Right up until the moment the old man kills him."

"I expect you to behave."

"Me? I’m a paragon of behaving!"

"No tormenting Nick. I mean it. He's going to have enough on his hands keeping track of Methos."

"No. No." And suddenly it wasn't funny any more. Joe abruptly remembered that he was very tired. And that life had gotten very complicated. And that he was worried. About a lot of things...."I've done enough of that."

"What?" Mac asked gently, not understand the change in mood.

"Tormenting Nick."

"I don't understand."

"You remember, a while back, Andre Korda turned up again." Joe was glad he was lying face down in the dark. He could not have looked Duncan MacLeod in the face and told this story.

"Yes, I know. In Paris. She told me."

"She didn't meet him in Paris. She met him in Canada. It was a nasty business."

"I'll just bet."

"Nick wanted to protect her. She tried to keep him out of it."

"I don't imagine she had much luck."

"She decided the best solution was to tell him that Korda had killed her. She had me do it."

"You didn't --"  
  
"I did. For Amanda, I did. They were both so determined, Mac. They were desperate to protect each other.... And looking into Nick's eyes, it was like looking in a mirror. He loved her as much as I loved you. Hell, I had _been_ there. I knew what it would do to him. And I did it anyway."

Mac did not try to answer that. There wasn't any answer anyway. After a long, thoughtful silence, he said, "If Wolfe can't work with you, I'll find something else for him to do."

"I’m sorry--"

"Don't. How many really stupid things have I done for Amanda?" The hand at the back of Joe's neck was doing something else, now.  Duncan was caressing him with a shifting touch that was firm but not painful.

Joe managed a laugh past the soft feeling that was making it a little hard to think. "I'd have to look it up. Ask me again tomorrow." A lie. If he had three minutes or so, he could count it up in his head.

"No, you're taking tomorrow off. Get some sleep, Joe. It'll be all right."

 

**01:47 GMT**

Unable to find a comfortable spot to sit on in his own room, Methos returned to MacLeod's and settled into a half-lotus on the brown paisley rug. He closed his eyes and shaped the pitch of his soft chant. Perfect tones, precise breathing. His focus--

\--Was fine, except he kept slitting his eyes and checking on the door. Was anyone coming? More than a dozen people knew, now.  Methos. A dozen people who could put a face to the name.

He relaxed his belly, drew a slow breath. No. He wouldn't panic. Wasted emotion, and dangerous. What he had done was necessary. More than necessary, it was his only chance. And, probably, a very *good* chance.

His voice wavered slightly. Methos drew another breath and shaped the vowels. Even. Slow.

Around him the resonance of the other immortals was an inaudible buzz in the background. When was the last time he had been among so many of his own kind--

His hands were sweating. And perhaps that was natural. He had been in hiding so long, shielded by names that had no aura of myth around them. Average names. Average lives. He'd been concealed so well by the mundane and expected. He'd grown comfortable with that, but the comfort had been an illusion. Things could not have gone on as they had in the past.

Immortals as a whole could not survive the rest of the world if they spent their energies fighting each other. Not now, with face recognition software in beta testing. Not now, with forensic genetics and digital records. In the coming years, it would take all of them working together to sustain the masquerade. It was take this risk now or wind up on a laboratory table before even fifty years had passed.

Methos shifted to a more complex chant. He was determined to clear his mind. Second guessing the decision now would do no good. It was too late. They knew his name: Matthew of Salisbury, Carl Robinson, all three of the Valicourts, Ceirdwyn--

Robinson had probably told his Watcher by now--

Methos shuddered, gasped, began the chant again. There was no point to this panic. He was saving his life, not risking it. Even a hundred years ago there had been no chance that the fearful or bloodthirsty would have brought on a Gathering. If every immortal in one city--if one _nation--_ had gone mad, it had been possible to run. Easy, even. Was Europe too dangerous? Move on to Asia?  Asia too hot? There was the Pacific with it's thousands of islands. Yes, you had to reach them by boat, but it was so easy to disappear.

Now it was only easy to be convenient. He could fly to Bali in a few hours. Hell, he could fly around the world in a single day if he wished. And that was the problem! There was nowhere to run any more.  No way to hide. Transportation was too fast and communication instantaneous. If five Immortals in Calcutta decided that the Gathering was upon them, their delusion could spread across the globe in a matter of hours. If things had continued as they had been going, it might all be over in a decade or two. Never mind winding up on a dissection table.  Methos had been in six fights in the last seven years. No one could last long with that active a lifestyle. Not Connor. Not Duncan even.  And certainly not Methos.

Revealing himself and throwing his resources in to this battle was his only chance. Methos had not done this out of altruism or for love. He had done it to survive.  And it was a very good chance.  It was--

Methos realized he was losing his battle to regulate his breathing. His mantra was coming in gasps and pants, and he clapped a hand over his mouth to try to forestall hyperventilation.

At the edge of his perception, the blurry presence of one of the other Immortals seemed to shift and move. Logic told him it had to be MacLeod coming up the stairs. Who else? But Methos reached under the paisley dust ruffle and took the hilt of the sword he had hidden beneath the bed. It had to be MacLeod. The timing was right. And anyway--

Even in the best of times, when he was rested and alert and only one other presence resonated against his own, Methos could not judge direction or strength, and even distance was vague.

The door opened and MacLeod met his eyes over the bed. Methos let go of the sword. "How did it go?" he asked mildly. He was fairly sure his expression was bland and guileless, but in the draft of the open door it was clear that his face was drenched with sweat.

"Joe is fine." MacLeod closed the door behind him and locked it.  "We had a long talk and I unblocked his ki. He's asleep now."

Methos dredged up a look of patient disapproval. "You would have done better to balance his charkas. Much more efficient."

"You're not going to start with that again?  That's a religion, not a body discipline--"

"It's a medical system with thousands of years of effective application behind it. I assume you do accept the value of a little experience?"

MacLeod made a rude noise. "Oh, come on. You can't even get two of the 'experts' to agree which way the pretty little flowers should be turning--assuming you're talking to two who think they should all be turning the same way. And how many chakras are there, anyway? Can even you give me a solid answer, O Venerable One?"

Normally Methos delighted in winding MacLeod up about Eastern mysticism. On his few visits to the monastery where Mac had spent the last four years mocking the Tao, finding irrelevant logical flaws with ahimsa, and making crude jokes about the Buddha had produced the most relaxed and friendly moments they had shared. Just at the moment, though, he couldn't think up any acidic comments about comparative religion.  Methos took a deep breath--and regretted it as he gulped back another wave of hysteria.

Moving slowly, MacLeod came around the bed and knelt on the floor beside Methos. "You'll be all right," he whispered. "I promise you." Strong hands crept around his waist and chest, pinning Methos against solid muscle.

"You can't promise anything."

"I'll have help. Matthew and Nick are already on board. I've called a friend of mine--absolutely competent, absolutely loyal. She can join us in a week."

Methos felt a slightly hysterical laugh rise. "Kira, I assume. Is this the moment to mention that she and I have history?"

"Naturally," MacLeod muttered. "She didn’t mention it."

"I wasn't using my own name."

"How bad is it?"

"Well....we parted amiably enough. She probably thinks I'm a bit of a flake, though. I knew her in the mid nineteenth century. I spend most of the time then plastered. Or high. Or both."

"Well, that's all right then. I mean, you _are_ a flake. She'll need an accurate picture of the situation."

Another near-hysterical laugh. "Nice to know what you really think of me."

"Flake doesn't begin to cover it, actually. You are a total idiot, Methos. I can't believe you did this. But I promise you, you won't pay for it. We'll take care of it somehow."

Methos groaned softly. He could not allow someone else to protect him this way. They would all underestimate the risk to themselves. And Methos would lose his edge if he became dependent, complacent....

Oh, but there was such safety in numbers. The greatest safety of all was in the certainty that his death would be avenged--

"Come." MacLeod shook him gently. "Come to bed."

"Duncan--"

"Come!"

There was no subtlety in MacLeod's lovemaking. If one could call it 'lovemaking.' It was sex, ruthless and very competent sex deployed in an irresistible offense against the terror occupying Methos' mind.  MacLeod's hands were everywhere. His mouth was demanding and sweet. Within moments, Methos was beyond thought, blindly chasing after that sweet mouth, those skillful hands.

Panting, sweating, inarticulate in his desire, Methos didn't resist the glorious assault. The fear was of no use to him and he hated the way it felt. This was better. Oh, better. He spread his arms and gave himself over to the moment, to the heat of the body. The sharp points of teeth in his ear. The light caress along his inner thigh.  The tongue tickling at his nipples.

MacLeod turned Methos, inserted one gentle finger in preparation, and the world whited out.

When the tide had passed and he found himself tired and happy and face down among the pillows, Methos had to admit that it was a good plan. His terror had served no good purpose and would only have blunted his reflexes in the end. His own endorphins would keep him pleasant and calm long after chemical euphoric or narcotics would. And they would also leave him alert.

A very good plan....

MacLeod smiled down at him. Methos reached for his face, slipped into sleep before his hand made contact. 

 

**07:54 GMT**

Marian Bell opened the door and smiled pleasantly. "I'm afraid my husband isn't here," she said to Matthew. "He's gone to the train station to meet one of the other supervisors."

Her easy cordiality was no surprise, but Matthew hadn't expected her to be so forthcoming.   Obviously, she was an accomplished liar, and the calm demeanor he had admired over the years could cover a multitude of awkward truths.  "Maybe I can have the conversation with you that I was planning to have with the Reverend," he said.

"Maybe you can." She stepped back from the door. "May I offer you a cup of coffee?" Her polished Southern gentility always reminded Matthew of happy days long past. Ten wonderful years he'd spent blissfully in love, the best years of his long life and ones he didn't expect the future would ever match.

But, of course, in those days it was only the White women who'd had the luxury of gentility. Time didn't always change things for the worse.

"I assume you have questions," she said, observing his long silence. She held out a cup of coffee. They had dined together before, once or twice. The cup she offered was fixed with cream and no sugar, the way he liked it.

"They're not...polite questions," he said.

"No, I wouldn't expect so," she said slowly. "You've had an upsetting surprise. But perhaps I can answer those questions. Currently, I am the Watcher of record for Grace. And, yes, she knew about me. She spotted me on my second day."

"Madam," he said, "I can scarcely believe that you are so unskilled at your occupation."

"I believe....that she already knew about us, but we have never discussed the topic."

"But the two of you are friends!" Despite his firm intention to be civil, Matthew's horror was slipping out. "I've eaten with you. At Grace's own house. With Carl right there--"

"We came to Trinidad first as friends of Derek. He needed what Carl could teach him, but he needed us, too. Our friends are still what comes first."

"And what exactly comes second," Matthew asked.

"*Second* we are missionaries working in a very poor neighborhood in a country with few advantages. Our position gives us opportunities that we take very seriously." She smiled kindly. "And third, we are historians."

"And your history lives less than half a mile away and invites you to dinner."

"Yes," she said. Her polite calm didn’t waver.

"And it doesn't strike you as the least bit repugnant, this deception you've been living for--six years is it now?"

"No more so than yours, Mr. McCormick," Marian answered gently.

 

**08:07 GMT**

Miles looked ruefully down at his rumpled suit and decided that he would simply have to _make_ time to change before heading over to that bed and breakfast. It would be impolite to show up too early, anyway. As important as his business was, the people he needed to see were still grieving.

The air was shockingly cold after the warm compartment. Miles had to blink to clear wind-tears from his eyes. Halfway down the crowded train platform an arm waved for his attention. Gathering his garment bag and portfolio, Miles waded through the crowd toward the three figures who waited for him: Elizabeth Tynan, Amy Thomas, and Tom Bell.  "Liz, Amy! Are you both on your way back to Paris?" he asked without pausing to greet them properly.

"Only me," Amy said.

Liz added, "Claude called this morning. Father Riley is even now on a train headed in this direction. It seems my assignment is coming to me."

"Yes, of course," Miles muttered. He should have foreseen this.  He turned to Amy. "You're off leave as of this moment. And you're staying here. I’m putting you on Nick and Amanda."

"But I don't _want_ a field assignment," she protested. "And I've got a project half finished in Historical Reference--"

"We need someone we can trust here. Until we can line up someone else, it'll have to be you. Say the next fortnight? Sorry."   He headed toward the stairs at the end of the platform. The other Watchers trailed after him.

"And that's another thing. You can't use _me_. My reports will be suspect--"

"You'll be partnered with Christian Lindhard, absolutely reliable and above reproach." He flashed a smile. "Possibly because he is the most boring person in the history of Denmark. Or maybe Europe. He's got seniority on this, but he won't give you a hard time. Tom," setting the problem of Amy Thomas aside for the moment, he turned to Reverend Bell, "What is our current status?"

Tom, with oblique discretion since they were in a public place, answered, "Of the guests at the funeral, only one has left town. Corwin of the Green took off last night. Mertonson is following him. As of ten minutes ago there hadn't been any sign of movement at that little hotel so far this morning. Are you planning to approach them today?" 

"I don't see that we have much choice. The General Committee probably won't reverse itself, but the regional coordinators are very....nervous. I don't think we should press our luck. Unless you think it's too soon--?"

"No, I don't. I don't think MacLeod will thank you for holding back. And I know we can't keep Dawson from noticing forever. It'll be better if we're up front about everything."

"Damn." Miles realized that, inwardly, he had been hoping to postpone. "Right then. Let's get it over with."

 

**08:46 GMT**

The day after they'd buried Connor, Joe came in to breakfast late, a mere fifteen minutes before the hostess was scheduled to come back and collect the items from the buffet. Everyone but MacLeod and Methos had already eaten and gone except for Michelle, who picked at a plate of cold eggs and yawned continually. Derek had not showed at breakfast at all. Assuming the obvious--

Assuming the obvious, MacLeod found that he was a little worried. They were so young. Except, of course, that they weren't all that young. They had both been immortal for several years, and neither of them had been innocent at first death. They knew what they were doing.

If anyone knew what they were doing. MacLeod wasn't sure he did.

Methos, refilling his own coffee, glanced over his shoulder at Joe. "Tea?" he asked, already reaching for the pot.

He did not wait for an answer before starting to pour. Perhaps it was his imagination, but MacLeod would have sworn the Joe had hesitated just a moment too long before saying, "Do they have any green?"

Methos looked at the half-full cup, then set it down and selected another.

Any doubts that MacLeod might have about whether or not Joe had done it on purpose were quickly put to rest. Joe took bran muffins and fruit from the sideboard, but when he sat down he--too casually--remarked that he had wanted to try the local jam. Methos obligingly got it for him.

After the jam, he asked about the sausage.

"You don't want the sausage," Methos said. "It's cold."

It was the first time the food issue had really manifested in words instead of gestures everyone pretended weren't being exchanged. "I don't mind."

"You don't want the sausage."

Trying not to smile, MacLeod said casually, "The oat cakes were good."

Innocently, Joe said, "Are there any left?"

Methos stood up again--was this three times? Four? And turned to the sideboard. He turned around again at once and looked at Joe with dawning comprehension. His expression was equal parts irritation and delight. "You utter shit," he said softly. "You complete dog!"

Joe's innocent look was gone now. "Are we done with this?" he asked.

"I'm...not sure," Methos said. Slowly, he walked around the table, his eyes never leaving Joe's face. 

"I'm serious here."

Methos nodded. "So am I." He was standing beside Joe now, so that Joe had to lean sideways and look up.  Something passed between them. Then Methos leaned down and kissed him.

At the other end of the table, Michelle looked on in surprise. Her expression faded from embarrassment to wonder to embarrassment again. She began to stack her dishes loudly.

The doorbell rang. They all jumped, even though no one had felt an Immortal coming. Methos straightened and folded his arms. Michelle's eyes went to the bread knife, the only obvious weapon in the room. _We're too edgy_ , MacLeod thought, forcing his mind away from his sword, still upstairs in his room. _We'll never be ready for a real threat if we keep jumping at shadows._

Voices in the hall and then Nick Wolf appeared in the doorway to the dining room. "Mac, there's a man here to see you. I think he's a Watcher."

Joe gave him a dirty look. "You can't tell by looking."

"He gave me this."  Wolf held out a business card. It had the Watcher symbol on it.

Joe winced slightly. "Oh. That would be Miles, trying to be charming. He has an odd idea of funny."

"So you don't normally use business cards?" Wolf asked sourly.

"Shockingly, no." Methos said.

"Show him in," MacLeod said, looking at the business card that Wolf had laid on the table. He didn't think it had been sent for its humor value. It wasn't funny at all. Just shockingly honest....

It was indeed Miles Bancroft who followed Wolf into the room. Matthew brought up the rear, his sword in sight. He stood almost carelessly in the doorway, looking disinterested but able to see into both the hall and the dining room.

Bancroft was businesslike and polite. He took the seat MacLeod offered, but turned down a cup of coffee. He came right to business. "Mr. MacLeod, it is the understanding of my employers that you intend...." He frowned. "You're intent on putting a stop to the Game?"

"It's a lie. I'm not going to play any more. And I’m going to do everything I can to encourage my....To encourage other people like myself to find another hobby, yes."

"I have been authorized to give certain information into your hands." Bancroft withdrew a manila folder from his briefcase. "I should probably mention--It is only because the current situation has become urgent that we are prepared to take such an extreme step. The Watchers have no desire to set themselves up as an arbiter of the Game. And in any case, things are moving very quickly--"

"I understand," MacLeod said curtly. "This is a one-shot." He held out his hand.

"Indeed. Exactly." Bancroft was sweating.

MacLeod waited, dreading the contents of the folder. It wasn't very thick, he observed. But it would be bad news, whatever it was.

The file was laid carefully in MacLeod's hand.

"Miles," Joe said softly, "what the hell is this?"

MacLeod was wondering that himself. He scanned the paper looking for a line that seemed sensible. Nothing seemed to be in order. "Is this in code?" he asked irritably.

"Oh. Um, no. Our recordkeeping is a little idiosyncratic, I suppose. If you'll just look here--"

But MacLeod had already found the beginning of an answer. "... and approaching from two directions, they trapped Aziz in an alley. Lung Hao killed Aziz with his handgun. Kiem Sun took the head."

"It's another posse," MacLeod whispered.

"Regarding deposition of the body--"

Blinking, MacLeod flipped through the papers. "How long has this been going on?" he asked.

"About six years. We only have detailed reports going back the last six months. You must understand the difficulties of conducting observations in mainland China."

"What happened six months ago?" MacLeod gave up on the convoluted report and pinned Bancroft with his eyes.

Bancroft swallowed and glanced at Joe. "Hong Kong. Malaysia. Indonesia. Australia. Two days ago, Kiem Sun and the others boarded a plane for Russia."

MacLeod forced down the familiar burn of rising tears. "How many men does he have? How many...have they killed?"

"Only five." Bancroft reached across and helpfully flipped a page. "Kiem Sun and five...subordinates. All male, all Immortal, all Chinese. We believe they all had first death less than seven years ago, although our information is somewhat sketchy."

Sure enough, the page Bancroft indicated was a list of names with brief biographies attached. Young men. Ignorant and confused and desperate and all under the sway of Kiem Sun, who was so afraid of dying. "How many have they killed?" MacLeod ground out.

"We have fifteen documented--" here he hesitated as he caught the look on MacLeod's face. "--quickenings. We suspect forty-seven, total."

"Christ," Joe whispered. Forgotten at the end of the table, Michelle squeaked.  Methos began to pace.

"Kiem Sun." MacLeod caught Joe and Methos alternately in a cold stare. "Were either of you going to tell me?"

"*I* didn't know," Methos fairly spat. "It's hard enough to keep up with the sword waving fruit cakes inhabiting the continent I'm on!"

"Kiem Sun, Joe?"

"No, damn it, I didn't know. Mac, there are thousands of you! And I was teaching."

"Don't be an ass, MacLeod," Methos shot as he paced past. "He didn’t know, either. It's not like anyone gives a crap about what happens in Asia."

"Pardon me--" Bancroft began indignantly.

"I don’t think so," Methos snapped back. "Six years this went on before you *noticed*. Standards have dropped since I left."

"China is not my region. And, Pierson, you can't be ignorant about the conditions there. Travel and communications--"

"I don't understand," Michelle said. "Immortals don't--they don't hunt like that. Combat--"

"Quiet please," MacLeod interrupted. For several long moments silence reined in the room. "Why are you bringing this to me?" he asked Bancroft.

"We understand Kiem's motivation. We believe he can be stopped without bloodshed. We think you might be able to do it." He took a deep breath. "Jacob Kell wasn't an isolated case. We've seen nine examples of this kind of cheating in the last ten years. That's more than in the last three hundred. If something doesn't change, we'll just see more and more of it."

MacLeod looked at him. He was still sweating. "And?" he prodded.

"And it's scaring the hell out of us. Usually, yes, organized groups like this don't last very long. Given the nature of the Game...they're unstable. But enough of them have lasted long enough for some people to start worrying about the prize."

MacLeod could imagine.

"If someone like Jacob Kell, or even Kiem Sun--"

"Yes, I see. So you've made it my problem."

"Sir, I don't think you want it to be *our* problem. We knew you would find out about this eventually," here Bancroft pointedly did not glance at Joe, "and we wanted it to be open and formal. As well as timely. I realize..." he trailed off and sighed.

MacLeod flipped through the pages. Names, faces, dates: this was the posse. And here, names, faces, and dates for the victims. Some were marked "presumed inactive" and others "inactive."  Every "inactive" meant a Watcher had witnessed a murder with his own eyes. Witnessed it or seen the body....

MacLeod stood up. "Thank you, Mr. Bancroft. I appreciate the time you've taken today. I'll let you know if I need anything further.

Looking relieved but solemn, Miles Bancroft said polite farewells and followed Nick to the door. In the hallway they passed the hostess coming with a tray to collect the breakfast things. MacLeod closed the file on its gruesome details and said to Matthew, "Call the others. We need to have a meeting. Here, in half an hour."

MacLeod gave the problem of transportation over to Amanda. By the time the others had gathered, it remained a problem. "I can get eight of us on a flight from London to St. Petersburg on Christmas day," she said.

"Three days?" MacLeod tried to rein in his annoyance.

"Well, we can get on a train on the twenty-fourth.  But that will get us there on the twenty-sixth. Late. I’m sorry. It's a bad time to travel."

"Item one," Methos muttered. "Buy a plane."

"It's very short notice," she said. "And you know what this time of year is like."

"Look, we've got cars," Wolf said. "Let's just drive." It was a very North American solution, and it brought MacLeod up short. Petrol prices in Europe were quadruple those in the New World.  And St. Petersburg was a couple of days away by car anyway.

"No," he said.  "We can't go charging off madly in all directions. If we do this in a thoughtless hurry we're going to foul it up anyway. The twenty-fifth will be fine.  We'll need to get tourist papers anyway. Fortunately, their holiday isn't until next month. If we pass around enough money, we should be all right."

"Yes, about that--" Amanda said delicately.

Sighing, MacLeod selected one of his credit cards. "Get cash," he said. "The next question is, who's going?"

Although the Valicourts would rather not travel on Christmas (given that they had intended to celebrate with their son) and Amanda was fairly sure she was still wanted in Russia ("What did you steal?" "Not as a thief, as a spy. And, anyway, I wasn't. It was all a silly mistake.") there were still more people who wanted to go than seats.

"Myself, Dawson, Methos, Matthew, Wolf, Cierdwyn, Marcus, and Grace."

"Now wait a minute--" Carl protested.

"I need her credibility," MacLeod said "Kiem Sun might not be beyond reason. He was a great man once. Grace's reputation may be invaluable." It didn't close the issue. Michelle, Derek, and Gregor also wanted to go. Everyone seemed to have in opinion, and nobody agreed. It was like herding cats.

There was also the question of some sort of permanent headquarters. Even if they were inclined to work out of this bed and breakfast indefinitely, more guests were scheduled to arrive the day after Christmas. They needed a better place to congregate, even temporarily. Someplace easily accessible to transportation. Someplace rather large, solidly built  and, ideally, even fortifiable. Holy ground would be best of all. Amanda offered her building in Paris, but it would take a few weeks to buy her partner out. 

"I know someone who has a nice little mansion in London," MacLeod said, smiling sweetly at Methos.

"Oh, fine. Invite yourselves over then. Have a party." But he could tell that Methos wasn't really annoyed.

That was the easy part of the discussion. The task of how to handle Kiem Sun and his gang of thugs was much more complicated. Everybody had an opinion.  Matthew, the Valicourts, Carl and Gregor were for delivering an ultimatum.  Make it a clear choice. Show they were serious. Rely on MacLeod's reputation as the guarantee of their trustworthiness. End it quickly one way or another.

Grace, Ceirdwyn, and Marcus argued against committing to a course of action before they met with the man. They were guessing at his state of mind. It was too early to know what the best approach was. They were in no hurry. The whole world couldn't be changed in a day or even a year after all. Yes, they would stop this distorted parody of the Game one way or another, but blustering about making threats would only make Kiem Sun panic more.

Early on in the discussion, Joe gathered up the file on Kiem Sun and left the room. MacLeod let him go. He would get Joe's opinion later, after he'd had time to do some research. He couldn't blame Joe for wanting to keep a low profile for a bit. The Watchers hadn't been brought up in this latest discussion and maybe that was for the best, at least for a while.

At about half-past eleven, Marcus Constantine got a call on his cell that sent him staggering to his feet, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "Yes," he said. "Yes, yes," and then lapsed into Hindi too fast for MacLeod to follow. The other Immortals watched in silence as he left the room.

"We have to keep in mind," Amanda said after a minute, "that Kiem Sun isn't our only problem. We all have...old friends we need to talk to.  It's not always going to be easy."

"Not just old *friends*," Gregor said darkly.

Around and around they went, shifting topics, shifting perspectives.  Sometimes the group discussion dissolved into little pockets arguing internally about side issues. MacLeod began to wish he actually were herding cats.  At least they were all thinking like Immortals, which meant that they weren't in a blind hurry to act before thinking. 

MacLeod found himself talking less and less. It was their voices he was listening to. Ceirdwyn, low and slow and even. Robert, sometimes forgetting himself in joy and laughing at odd moments. Gregor, sounding like he'd cried most of the night. Derek, quick and eager. Carl, clipped and precise. Even though they were planning a secret and desperate war, they sounded relaxed in a way MacLeod had never heard such a large group of Immortals.

He supposed it would be this way from now on. He supposed soon there would come a time when the most important thing you taught your students wasn't to be afraid of other Immortals.  How Richie would have loved this. Richie and Rebecca and Brian and Mai Ling. And Connor.

He felt Connor's loss like a sword through the heart. Connor should have been here for this, but Connor had left him--

Around the table the others were standing up. They had called a recess for lunch, apparently. A late lunch; it was nearly two.  MacLeod begged off, claiming that he had some calls to make, smiling to cover the numbness, the empty ache....He could not face sympathy just then. Or  help.  And he could not break down in front of these people who relied on him to make the impossible come true.  

Marcus also wasn't going with the others. "I have to meet the train. Duncan. Someone is coming. A friend of mine, I--"

"An old friend--?" MacLeod roused himself to focus on what Marcus was saying.

"A goddess," he answered. "And a great woman. I've been searching--but she was driven from India. The British. And then China--"

MacLeod vividly remembered the power of Marcus's loyalty. It worried him a little, actually, because Marcus sometimes lost his sense of self-preservation in depth of his looking-back. "Should we send someone with you? Amanda, perhaps?"

"No, no. We'll be fine. You will meet her this afternoon."

MacLeod wandered slowly into the livingroom and watched through the window as the cars pulled away. It was another cold day, grey and overcast, though not quite freezing.  Really, it was only the second day of winter; two or three long, cold months stretched out ahead. St. Petersburg would be no better, although he had spent a winter there once. Cold, yes, but thick snow had lain everywhere. The sky had been overcast and sunset came dreadfully early, but what light there had been had reflected of the snow that covered the roofs, the trees.

It had been Connor who had first told him of far-off lands. Strange peoples, strange languages, brightly colored art, churches and temples, tall ships on the seas, impossible foods, exotic women--

A soft noise behind him made MacLeod jump. He turned around to see Joe getting up from the old-fashioned gold sofa. For a moment MacLeod could only stare in consternation, irritated with himself.  Too many people were still fighting the Game for an Immortal to casually wander into a room and _not notice_ someone already there. Never mind that Joe was mortal. And completely safe. He couldn't afford to be careless, not yet.

Joe shrugged and smiled apologetically. "Sorry," he said kindly. "I'll leave you alone."

"Don't. Please." 

Joe regarded him for a moment and then sat down again. He patted the seat next to him. Inclined to obedience by his emptiness and loneliness, MacLeod joined him. "Connor," he said, wanting to explain. He couldn't force himself to say more, though. He felt wretched. He tried to shove the feeling aside, failed, decided to ignore it. "What's your opinion? Kiem Sun, I mean."

"You don't want to fight him," Joe said immediately.

"I knew _that_ already."

"I meant tactically. When you beat him ten years ago, he was...rusty. He's been practicing."

MacLeod nodded. "And his gang?"

"Not terribly special. They've had very good training, of course, but they're young. Competent swordsmen at best." Joe sighed, fiddling with his ring. "The real problem is that they cheat. That puts you at a disadvantage, because that crowd you're with? You won't get most of them to cheat. Not yet. Most of them are thinking in terms of the 'rules.'"

"Well. It could be worse," MacLeod said, trying to smile.

"Do tell me how."

"The thing I want to do is also the best tactical choice. How many times does that happen? I don't want to fight him, and I sure as hell don't want to fight his kids."

"Yeah." Joe sighed. "The bottom line is surviving, though."

 _Oh, Connor._ But no, he was ignoring that feeling. "So...speaking of kids. I saw Amy yesterday. How are things going there?"

Joe glanced down at the floor, but he was smiling slightly. "Not bad, really. Finally." MacLeod remembered a summer afternoon in the monastery garden, Joe pacing restlessly, showing him pictures of a young woman with short dark hair. It had been awkward and Joe had been embarrassed. It had been a painful little talk. Today was better.  Joe looked up at him out of the corner of his eye and laughed sheepishly. "You'll like this, actually. The irony. She showed up at my place in Geneva last January. She said she needed advice."

"Professional advice?"

"Noooo. Personal advice. She'd fallen in love. With a co-worker. A new academy graduate assigned to Liam Riley," here Joe winced "at his request."

Amy had wanted her biological father's advice about a Watcher who'd broken the rules even before getting assigned? "I'm...Sorry?" He wasn't sure that was the right thing to say.

"No it wasn't about that. She wanted my advice because she'd fallen in love with a woman."

"And of course you told her it didn't matter and there wasn't anything wrong with it." MacLeod nodded.

"No. You don't understand. She came to me for advice. On dating. On.... _dating_. She said she didn't have anyone else."

 Advice on being gay. "I don't see how you could be much help," MacLeod said. "Why did....ooooo."

Joe nodded.  "Like everyone else, she assumed I'd been screwing you for the last eight or nine years."

"I'm very sorry," MacLeod whispered.

"I'm not."

"What did you tell her?"

Joe laughed shortly. "Well I sure as hell didn't tell her the truth. She wouldn't have believed me and anyway--"

"It would have been a rejection."

"Yeah. So I told her to follow her heart and be herself and as long as she behaved honorably, no matter what happened she would not regret it later."

"Not bad advice."

"Terrible advice. I think she was hoping for something practical. Like, for example, were there any secret handshakes or something so she could make an offer known without having to make things awkward." He snorted. "Father's don't do practical. They do supportive. It was all very...surreal."

"I bet you were fine."

A grin. "I was fantastic. Well, I was good enough."

"How did things work out? With the girl, I mean?"

"Still dating. From what I've heard, Lizzy is quite the handful.  Reckless, short-sighted, takes dangerous chances. Father Liam knew her from _before_. All I can imagine is he requested her to keep her out of trouble."

"Well, hell. I can't think of a more boring assignment than Father Riley."

Joe patted his shoulder. "Buddy, lately you have topped him."

MacLeod thought of the monastery and what had dragged him out of it. He imagined what was coming. He said cheerfully, "Well _that's_ about to change." But all he could think of was Connor, how he would never see it, how he had given up--now, when MacLeod needed him so badly. The pain of it was so sharp that he could scarcely breathe.

MacLeod could tell from Joe's face that he wasn't hiding it. His impulse was to run, but there was no place far enough away to either escape or conceal this endless grief.

Joe dug around behind him and produced a throw pillow. It was an unfortunate thing: small and square and embroidered with little pink hearts and red roses. Joe set the pillow against his hip and patted it.

His teeth clinched over the crying he was not-- _not_ \--going to let take over again, MacLeod lay down, curled on his side, his head braced against the overly pretty pillow. Joe curled his near arm over MacLeod's shoulder and after a moment began to sing very quietly. MacLeod was beyond making out the words or caring about content, but the soft shape of music numbed the pain a little. He let himself sink into the stiff couch, into the soft voice.  A couple of tears escaped. He let them go.

 

~END

 


End file.
